


Que Quieres en la Vida

by missbecky



Series: Still Standing [3]
Category: Once Upon a Time in Mexico (2003)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Major Graphic Violence, PTSD, References to off-screen non-con involving a minor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-18
Updated: 2012-08-18
Packaged: 2017-11-12 10:06:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 94,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/489673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbecky/pseuds/missbecky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When an old friend betrays them, dark secrets in Sands' past come to light, forcing him to confront the madness within. Final story in the Still Standing trilogy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to [After the Dust Has Cleared](http://archiveofourown.org/works/489566) and [When All is Said and Done](http://archiveofourown.org/works/489602)
> 
> Originally posted to ff.net in 2003 following their chapter system. Contains references to off-screen non-con involving a minor, and subsequent insanity/PTSD. Please heed these warnings if reading about these things is not comfortable for you.

Chapter 1: Watching

 

During the hunt for Chiclet’s brother, El began to watch Sands.

It started innocently enough. He could not shake the guilt that had overcome him at Lorenzo’s death, and the conviction that he was bad luck to his friends. He had not felt this low since leaving Acuña, the town where it had all begun for him, where he had stopped being just a mariachi, and become a killer.

Their faces would not leave his memory. When he closed his eyes, he saw them still.

He wanted to make sure he never did anything again to endanger those he cared about.

So he started paying close attention to Sands, and everything the man did. And somewhere along the way, he forgot that he was watching only in order to stay alert and cautious. Somewhere along the way, the nature of his observation changed, and it was not too terribly long before he found himself entranced by what he saw.

Spying on Sands -- for that was what he was doing, really -- was surprisingly hard, however. He had stopped wearing his mariachi pants, and he no longer jingled when he walked, but Sands always knew where he was, anyway. It took El a while to realize that this knowing was Sands’ way of making sure he was in control. If he knew where El was, then he felt safer. Especially since they were on the trail of a ruthless cartel who had kidnapped a young man.

So El discovered stillness. He would stand or sit very still, sometimes for hours on end. He would breathe shallowly, slowly, making no sound. He perfected the arts of invisibility and perfect silence.

And in this way he got to watch. 

He saw many things.

At all times, but more so when he knew he was being watched, Sands was the epitome of dark, elegant grace. No motion was wasted, no gesture unnecessary. He had developed simple but efficient routines to get him through the day, and El observed these with utter fascination.

He would sit in a cheap cantina in some piss-poor town in a forgotten corner of Culiacan, order dinner, and promptly forget about it because he was busy watching Sands eat. Sands used both his knife and fork to ensure he found all the food on his plate, holding them European-style, with the fork in his left hand. His glass was always set down to the right of his plate, and El watched as he lightly touched the rim of the plate with his thumb, to be sure of the distance between the plate and the glass. Always the same distance, always the same location of the glass.

He held his right hand out when walking through a strange place. Not far, not the stilted zombie walk El identified with horror-movie villains. Just a cautious feel. He kept his hand low, his fingers splayed, the better to feel things. When he navigated a room, his hand trailed across the backs of chairs, along lampshades, and over tabletops. Only a light touch. A caress.

He kept plenty of cash on him, and he knew which bill was what. He folded down different corners of the bill to tell what denomination it was, and he always paid in exact change. He always knew how much money he was carrying, down to the lowliest peseta.

He walked differently in those settings where he lacked confidence. A more shuffling gait, a slight drag to his step. He was feeling out the ground, ensuring it was stable, a place where he could put his foot and not stumble or twist an ankle or fall. But in a room where he knew the layout, he moved with a sinuous grace, stalking the carpets and tiled floors so that they seemed to become something different -- the marble of a palace or the green floor of the rain forest. Where Sands walked, the ground changed.

However, there was no time to watch Sands on the day they confronted the gang who had kidnapped Chiclet’s brother.

It had taken them a week to learn the whereabouts of the gang responsible for the boy’s abduction, and another two days to actually find them. There were six of them, mostly young and stupid, sent to take a boy who was meant only as bait.

They were on their way back to the cartel’s hideaway in the mountains, and they were not moving very fast. They wanted their pursuers to catch up to them. They had laid a trap. Or so they thought. They were monumentally stupid, and on the night El and Sands caught up to them, they had stopped for the night in a church, turning the pastor out into the night and taking control of the rectory.

There were only two doors in and out. The windows were locked. El walked the entire perimeter of the building, listened to the drunken laughter inside, and grimaced. He supposed it was getting harder to lure intelligent men to join the cartels these days.

When he told Sands the plan, the former CIA agent grinned. “Just like the good old days,” he said.

They took the cartel members with ease. There was a lot of random shooting, and a lot of yelling, and in the end, the six men in the rectory were dead, and only Pablo remained alive, tied to the radiator and looking at El across the slaughter with an expression of dumb gratitude.

They left the church and began the drive back to their village. Pablo turned out to be nothing like his brother. He was loud and clumsy, and he laughed in all the wrong places when he told jokes. El knew this reaction was nothing more than nervous fear, but he found his patience severely tested during the drive home. He had never been so thankful to finish a task in all his life.

Pablo’s family was ecstatic at his return. They hugged El and tried to hug Sands, and there were many tears. They made a large dinner and begged their saviors to stay, and although he was tired and cranky, El agreed.

After dinner, Chiclet walked them out to the car. He looked up at Sands with shining eyes. “Gracias, señor,” he said, over and over. “Gracias.”

Sands allowed the boy to give him a brief hug, after first asking if there was anybody around to witness it. “Go back inside, kid. Go be with your brother.”

Chiclet nodded. “Sí.” He stood there, smiling up at them for a while longer, then he turned and scampered back inside the house.

“Christ,” Sands sighed. “Let’s get out of here.”

****

That night, in their own house once again, El could not sleep. He kept seeing images from the past, things that had seemed insignificant at the time, suddenly become important.

He remembered what it felt like to walk down a strange street with his eyes closed, his heart hammering in his chest. He saw Carolina smile and wave to him, and for the first time, it occurred to him that she had been waving good-bye.

He rose from his bed and walked silently through the hall.

He stopped outside the bedroom at the back of the house. Part of him was screaming at him to go back, just what in God’s name was he thinking of? The rest of him just watched, detachedly amused by his own sheer stupidity.

He turned the doorknob and eased the door open, waiting for excruciatingly long minutes between each movement, fully expecting to hear an angry voice demanding to know what the fuck he was doing.

But no voice came. El opened the door as much as he dared, and slipped into the room.

The drapes were halfway drawn. Silver moonlight filtered in through the window, illuminating the room and its lone occupant. 

Everything was very tidy in this room. Objects atop the dresser and nightstand were aligned in neat rows. The closet doors were closed. The furniture was shoved against the walls, creating clear paths to maneuver through. Only the bed jutted out into the room, in the exact center, spaced equally between the two longer walls. 

Sands slept on his back. He was not wearing his sunglasses. They were on the nightstand beside the bed, within quick and easy reach. 

Instead of the sunglasses, a strip of black cloth lay over the hollows where Sands’ eyes had been. This answered one of El’s many unasked questions at least, because he had often wondered how the agent could comfortably sleep while wearing sunglasses. Yet there were issues to consider, such as how to protect the sensitive area around his eyesockets. His friend’s solution struck El as uniquely Sands – a blend of practicality and passion.

Sands’ left arm was over his head. His face was turned into the crook of his elbow. The sheet was tangled about his hips. He wore a sleeveless white T-shirt. The hem had ridden up, revealing his taut abdomen, and the line of hair that traveled downward.

El stared, transfixed. He forgot to breathe.

Sands slept, unaware that he was being observed. His sleep was not easy, however, and El watched as the hand resting on his chest twitched, and closed into a fist. His lips parted, and he made a soft sound.

He was going to wake up soon. For safety’s sake, El knew he should leave now, closing the door behind him. If Sands knew he had stood there and watched him sleep, he was likely to get shot. Twice. Possibly three times.

El did not move.

He stood very still as Sands jerked awake with a hoarse cry. He watched as Sands rose up onto his elbows, breathing heavily. The agent was trembling.

After a while, Sands relaxed a little. He muttered something under his breath and started to lower himself back to the bed.

And then something caught his attention. A stray sound, or an imagined one. He sat bolt upright again, reaching under his pillow and coming up with one of his pistols. He cocked his head, listening hard.

El froze. He held his breath. _No one here_ , he thought wildly, transmitting these thoughts into the room, hoping Sands would hear. _No one here but you._

If Sands got up and decided to go exploring, things would turn ugly. Very ugly. There was no way El could leave the room without the agent knowing he had been there. And if all he suffered was a gunshot or two as a result, he would count himself lucky.

Long minutes passed. Finally Sands made a sharp evading gesture with the gun. “Fuck you. You’re not there,” he whispered. 

_I knew it_ , El thought sadly. _What else could it be? Who was it? Who were you dreaming about, my friend?_

This one time, he wanted to be wrong.

Sands lay back down. He slipped the gun under the pillow again. He curled onto his side and jerked the sheet up over his shoulder.

El counted to five hundred once, then a second time. In the bed, Sands’ breathing evened out again as he slid back toward slumber. 

Slowly El began to back out of the room, closing the door as he went.

He did not relax until he was out in the hall and the bedroom door was closed. He walked past the kitchen, past the spare room, past his own room. Through the living room, and out the front door.

He sat in his chair out on the porch. The moon was full overhead.

A long, quivering breath escaped him. He felt exhilarated, like he had just gotten away with the world’s greatest heist. At the same time, he felt sick to his stomach with shame, that he would spy on his only friend like that. He had seen and heard things tonight he had no business knowing.

But the excitement was greater than the shame, and El Mariachi could not understand that.

“What’s happening to me?” he whispered.

The moon had no response for him.

**** 

Shortly after dawn, he went inside. He walked right up to Sands’ room and pushed open the door without knocking.

Sands had clearly just woken up. He stood in the middle of the room, his hair a tangled mess. He had put on his sunglasses, which relieved El. For some reason, thinking of that black blindfold made his stomach knot painfully.

In seconds Sands had a gun in his hand. “What the hell do you want?” 

El just stared at him. He had not dressed yet, and he was still only wearing that sleeveless shirt and his boxer shorts. The scars on his body were stark in the early morning light. The bullet wounds in his thigh, left arm, and chest. The mark on the left side of his face, so thin El often couldn’t even see it, where he had been struck with the rifle outside the pink drug house, the same night he had told El his full name.

Sands cocked the gun. “El? Earth to El? What the fuck do you want?”

El gave himself a shake. “I’m going into town,” he said gruffly. “To market.”

“What? Today?” Sands frowned.

“Yes,” he said. He turned to go.

“We have things to do today,” Sands said.

“I’m going to market,” El said, over his shoulder. He was almost out the door.

“El--”

“Not now. Later.” He was gone.

****

At the end of the driveway, he stopped walking. The morning was already growing warm, but it was December; the day would not be terribly hot. Winter in Mexico was hardly worthy of the word.

He waited for twenty minutes, then turned around, and went back to the house. Again a part of him marveled at the lunacy of what he was doing, but that shocked voice was quieter than it had been last night. It had seen things since then, and it was busy thinking about them.

He had left the front door ajar – somehow he had known, when he left, that he would be back. He didn’t know whether he should be mad at himself for this flash of foresight, or relieved.

He slipped inside the house, into the living room. Sands was sitting in the armchair that had been Ramirez’s favorite. He was fresh from the shower; his hair was curling damply about his face. He was dressed in a simple white T-shirt, blue jeans, and his boots. He wore his guns, and his sunglasses.

He was watching TV. A melodramatic soap opera (not, El reflected, that there was any other kind) was playing. Shows like this, with lots of dialogue, were all Sands could watch anymore. He couldn’t follow what was happening in action movies, much to his annoyance, so he had long since given up on them.

He talked back to the TV as the show played out, making snide remarks that left El hard-pressed not to laugh. They were the kind of things the mariachi thought about saying, but never said aloud.

It occurred to him that he would like to be sitting on the couch, sharing in the humor. Carolina had talked to the TV, and he had always enjoyed hearing her, even when she talked over something he had wanted to hear. He wanted to sit there and share sarcastic asides with Sands, and laugh at the overacting on the show. He missed the companionship that came from laughing with another person over the same jokes.

The show ended with a dramatic cliffhanger, as they all did. Sands scoffed, and went into the kitchen. He returned with a can of Coke, and settled himself back in the armchair. He rolled a cigarette and smoked it. Another soap opera came on.

El stood in the doorway, watching all this.

Halfway through the second soap opera, some sixth sense warned him, and he turned around.

Chiclet was riding his bike up the driveway.

Immediately El waved his arms, gesturing for the boy to stop. Chiclet rode on for a little bit more, then saw him, and coasted to a stop. He opened his mouth to shout, and El shook his head, very fast.

Chiclet frowned. He remained on his bike, however, and did not approach the house -- he had learned a hard lesson at Belinda Harrison’s hands.

Moving quietly, slowly, El left the house. He crossed the porch and leapt off the top step, landing in a crouch in the yard. He glanced behind him, half-expecting Sands to come out of the house, but the TV must have masked the sounds of his departure, for Sands remained inside.

When he reached the end of the driveway, El smiled at Chiclet. “No school today?”

The boy shook his head. “No. What is happening?”

“Nothing,” El said.

The suspicion on the boy’s face did not diminish. Abruptly El realized that although Chiclet liked him, the boy’s loyalty did not lie with him. If Chiclet was forced to choose sides, he would choose Sands without hesitation.

It was in his best interest, then, to enlist Chiclet’s help.

“I was watching Agent Sands,” he admitted.

The boy gazed up at him for a long moment. “Por que?”

“Why?” El glanced at the house. He had to say something, provide a reason that Chiclet would understand. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt that it was important to get the boy on his side.

“I want to help him,” he said, and was surprised to find this was not too far from the truth – whatever the truth was. “Like you do.”

Chiclet’s face scrunched up. “Like me?”

El nodded. “That’s why I was watching him. So I could figure out how to help him best.”

“But that’s easy,” Chiclet said with a big, disarming smile. “Just be nice to him. Talk to him. He yells at me, but I know he doesn’t mean it.” He hesitated, then added, a bit shyly, “Sometimes when he’s feeling sad, I hug him, if he lets me. But I don’t think you should try that. I think he would get mad.”

El struggled not to laugh. _You have no idea_ , he thought.

“What do you talk about?” he asked. He was welcome in their odd friendship, but he had often left them alone, knowing Sands preferred it that way. He had never really sat and listened to them talk, except for the occasional guitar or piano lesson. He had absolutely no idea what a blind, insane ex-CIA agent and a young Mexican boy would find to talk about.

Chiclet shrugged. “I tell him what I did in school. About my brothers and sisters. That kind of thing.”

“And what does he talk about?” El asked.

“Nothing,” Chiclet said. “Sometimes he asks me questions, but mostly he just listens.”

“Do you ever ask him questions?” El asked curiously. It was very possible that Chiclet knew things about Sands that no one else did. 

And he knew the reason for that. Sands trusted the boy, and would never expect him to tell El the things he knew. It was a betrayal of that trust for El to even ask.

Chiclet, although he was still only a child, knew this. He squirmed and looked down. “No,” he said. “I used to, but he doesn’t like it when I do.” He lifted his face and stared El right in the eye. “Why do you suddenly want to help him?”

El opened his mouth to reply, then shut it. That was the question, all right. A question he did not have an answer to. 

He beckoned to the boy. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go in.”

Chiclet hopped on his bike. “I’ll race you there!”

El smiled. “You go on ahead,” he said. “I’ll be along later.” He paused, then said, “This will be our secret, sí?”

Chiclet gave him a long look. El fought the absurd desire to shift his weight from foot to foot like a child caught doing something he shouldn’t have been doing, in the exact same manner Chiclet had done just a minute ago.

“All right,” the boy said. He smiled, then dinged the bell on his bike, and rode up the driveway.

****

El waited an hour before going inside.

When he went in, Sands and Chiclet were in the kitchen. Chiclet was making grilled cheese sandwiches on the griddle. Sands slouched at the table, his feet propped on another chair in front of him. “Just in time for the food,” he said. “Way to go, El. Get that extra bit of slave labor out of the kid.”

“I don’t mind!” Chiclet said brightly. He liked cooking, El knew. Anything to be useful to his two adult friends.

“I ate in town,” El lied. He pulled the chair out from Sands’ feet, and sat in it.

Sands gave El the finger and sat up straight. “Buy anything?”

“No,” El said. “What did you mean when you said we had things to do today?”

Sands jerked his thumb in Chiclet’s direction, and shook his head.

“Oh,” El said. He knew what Sands wanted to talk about now.

****

The rest of that day, however, there was not much chance to talk. Chiclet stayed for hours, playing his guitar, watching cartoons on TV, eating the ice cream he so loved. He was happy his brother was back home, safe and sound, but Pablo was ten years older than him, and he didn’t know the teen too well. When El asked him if he wouldn’t rather be at home with his brother, the boy shrugged and said he liked it here. His bright laughter was infectious, and the mood in the little house was more light-hearted than it had been in a long time.

Then Chiclet, quite innocently, ruined it all.

Bored with TV, he was wandering the living room, touching things in that aimless way children had that always made El feel nervous and on edge. He ended up in front of the bookcase, peering up at the books Ramirez had owned. “Are there any funny stories?”

El shrugged. After Ramirez’s death, he had idly glanced through the bookshelves, but he had done nothing more than that. He was not much of a reader.

Chiclet studied the spines a little longer, then turned to Sands. “Señor!” he said, his face alight with excitement. “You should learn to read the bumpy dots, and then you can read funny stories, like I do.”

Sands had been sitting in the armchair, looking pained. El knew that look -- it was the way he looked when he was trying to act normal. But when Chiclet said that about learning Braille, Sands went very still. All the life bled from his face.

El tensed, fearing the worst.

“Go home, Chiclet,” Sands said hoarsely. “Get out of here.”

The boy’s face fell. He knew he had said something wrong. “Lo siento,” he mumbled, and fled. The bell on his bike jingled once as he rode off down the driveway, the sound floating in through the open windows, then he was gone.

_I’m sorry._

El sighed. With anyone else it would have been a sensible suggestion. But not Sands. The agent hated his blindness, and he was determined to behave as though he was still sighted, as much as possible. The very thought of learning Braille was a deep insult to his spirit.

“Don’t be angry with him,” El said.

“Fine,” Sands snapped. “I’ll be pissed at you, instead.”

El nodded. He did not ask why Sands felt the need to be pissed to begin with. He knew the man too well by now to ask such a question. “What did you want to talk about, before?”

“Yeah, that.” Sands made an effort to overcome his anger; for a long moment El did not think he was going to succeed. But when he spoke again, it was with the cynical drawl he used when he wanted to hide his excitement. “So tell me, El my dear friend, when are we going after the cartel fuckers who kidnapped Chiclet’s brother?”

El nodded. He had expected this, ever since Sands had indicated that what he wanted to talk about had something to do with Chiclet.

They had already argued once about it. After killing the cartel members and releasing Pablo, Sands had wanted to push on. El had replied that they needed to return Pablo to the village, and Pablo had said rather tearfully that he just wanted to go home, so Sands had lost the argument that day.

But clearly he had not given up. “You’re not planning to let them get away with this, are you?” Sands’ tone stated that he felt certain El would say he was indeed not planning any such thing.

“We went after them to find Pablo,” El said. “We did that. We are done.”

“No,” Sands said firmly. “We are not.”

“Is this because you want to prove you are not standing still?”

“Fuck that. This is Chiclet’s family we’re talking about here. If that means nothing to you, fine. But it does to me.”

El sat back, amazed at what he had just heard. 

So amazed, in fact, that his mouth took over, before his brain could stop it. “You love him, don’t you?”

The thunderstruck silence that met this pronouncement made El cringe.

“What did you say?” Sands said. He sounded so cold, El had to look twice to make sure his hands were nowhere near his guns.

He lifted his chin, defying his friend. “I said, you love him.”

“I told you once before, there is no such thing as love,” Sands replied.

“But you do care for him,” El insisted.

“Let me tell you what I’ve learned about love,” Sands said. “It makes a strong person into a weakling. A genius into a moron. If you want someone to do something for you, all you have to do is find what they love, take it, threaten it, and hurt it a little. That person will practically jump to do your bidding.” The corner of his mouth quirked. “Trust me. I’ve seen it happen, too many times to count.”

_I bet you have_ , El thought sickly. _I bet you perfected the art of coercion, torturing innocent lives to make people do what you wanted, or tell you what you wanted to hear._

But this was unkind, and more to the point, it was irrelevant. The Sands who had done those things was long gone. He had died a bloody death on the Day of the Dead two years ago, at the hands of one Dr. Guevara.

“You are right,” El acknowledged. “But that is hardly secret knowledge. Everyone knows it. That is why the cartel took Chiclet’s brother.”

“What?” Sands said flatly.

El marveled at his willing ignorance. “Don’t you see? The cartels have not stopped wanting us dead. They took Chiclet’s brother so we would rush after him. And when we had stepped into their trap, they would spring it.”

Sands curled one hand into a fist. “Christ,” he swore. 

“It was only luck,” El continued, “that we found Pablo when we did, before his captors had reached the cartel’s hideout, and rejoined the rest of the members.”

Sands shook his head in disgust. “You know, I used to be real good at manipulating people. I guess that’s just another thing I’ve lost in this goddamn country.”

El thought for a moment. He remembered the strange feeling he had gotten as he watched Sands sleep.

“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “I think you still have it.”

********

Chapter 2: Trusting

 

Sands didn’t like mysteries. He never had. He much preferred knowing what was happening around him. He _needed_ to know what was happening around him. And since being blinded, that need had become an imperative. If he didn’t know, he got nervous.

And when he got nervous, he got trigger-happy.

However, because El was the source of the mystery this time around, he had firmly put aside any thoughts of random shootings. He was still puzzled and wary, but he wasn’t _worried_. There was a big difference between wary and worried.

Still, he wondered what was going on.

Since the day of the storm, the day he had killed Belinda Harrison, El had been different. Most of that was guilt at Lorenzo’s death, but not all. Sands didn’t know what the other component of El’s weirdness was, and he didn’t like that not-knowing.

He knew he had a problem with paranoia, but he thought El was spying on him somehow. Watching him all the time.

And he didn’t like it.

So the night El accused him of love, he found himself sitting awake on the edge of his bed, sleep the furthest thing from his mind.

Not to disappoint El, but he didn’t love Chiclet. He was incapable of love – he had known that about himself for as long as he could remember. He did like the kid, but in the end, the simple truth was that he used Chiclet. Being with the kid made him feel better about himself, made him feel almost human, for a time. So he grabbed what he could, and gave nothing back in return. No one could call that love. 

He had wanted to rescue Chiclet’s brother and keep Chiclet happy only because he didn’t like it when the kid was upset about something. When the kid was upset, he moped around and cried a lot, and that did not make Sands feel good. And he had come to rely on Chiclet’s visits to lift his spirits. So he had rescued Pablo for selfish reasons only, not out of any love for Chiclet.

_You know what?_ asked the voice in his head. _It’s two steps forward, one step back with you, buddy. Ever notice that?_

_Shut up._

_I just wanted to ask you why that was. If you had any brilliant ideas, since you’re supposed to be so smart. Are you really so happy that I’m still hanging around? Want to keep me here a while longer?_

“Shut. Up,” Sands hissed aloud. His hands curled into fists, grabbing handfuls of the quilt atop the bed.

Outside, in the hall, he heard a sound. A quiet sound, as though the person making it did not wish it to be heard.

Immediately two possibilities presented themselves. Either someone had gotten in the house, for purposes unknown; or El was out there, for reasons unknown. 

Sands drew one of his pistols, thumbed the safety off, cocked it, and aimed it at the door. 

The sound outside came again.

He debated whether he should call out. If the person in the hall was a simple burglar, alerting the stranger to his presence might be a big mistake. On the other hand, if it was El, it would be best to find out what the hell the mariachi was doing out there.

He decided that staying silent was the better option. He rose to his feet and walked the four paces to the bathroom. He stepped inside and to the left, then turned so his back was to the wall. The towel bar pressed into his spine, but he ignored this. He held the gun with both hands in front of his chest, the muzzle pointed at the ceiling.

If anyone came in his room, he was going to shoot first and ask questions later.

For a long time nothing happened. He stood very still, listening with every fiber of his body.

The sound came again.

He tensed. One finger curled about the trigger.

_Not yet_ , whispered the voice. _Not yet._

He nodded.

The seconds ticked by. He did not hear the sound again. 

When fifteen minutes had passed, he realized that he was going to have to investigate the source of that noise.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

Slowly he stepped out from the bathroom. Silence surrounded him, making his heart beat faster. Sometimes he dreamed he was deaf too, imprisoned in a world where he could neither see nor hear, but could only scream.

He eased across the room, listening hard. The only things he heard were his own footsteps, his breathing, and the faint ticking noise the ceiling fan made as it spun endlessly overhead.

The door loomed closer; he could sense its solid presence. He raised his hand, but he already knew what he would find.

The door was closed. There was no one in the room. If they were there, he would have heard them by now. No one was capable of staying perfectly still for that long, not even El, although El sure had been trying to, of late.

But there had been someone. He knew it. He had heard them.

_Are you sure? Really sure? Maybe it wasn’t just your mind…oops, our mind…playing tricks on you?_

“It better not be,” he growled. Because if he could not trust his own senses anymore, what was he left with?

_How about a seeing-eye dog?_

“Shut up,” he muttered.

_He could fetch your Braille books!_

“Shut up!” He stalked back to the bathroom. He laid the pistol on the counter beside the sink. “Shut up, or I’ll do it.”

The voice laughed. _You wouldn’t dare._

“Yeah?” He reached up and pulled off his sunglasses. “Last chance, fuckmook.”

_Go ahead. You always hurt the ones you…hate._

He turned on the tap, full blast. He stuck his hands under the water, cupping his palms. Water filled the bowl his hands made, ran over his fingers, and gurgled down the drain.

Before he could lose his courage, he raised his hands and threw the water in his face.

Washing every morning was quite a challenge now, he would have said, had anybody asked. He had to be very careful not to get water or soap or shaving cream or anything near the hollows where his eyes had been. He had learned very early on the price to be paid for being careless.

Water splashed over his cheeks, nose, chin, forehead. It ran greedily into his eyesockets, igniting a thousand fires in his head. The pain wrung a cry from him, and his knees buckled. He reached up and grabbed for the edge of the sink with both hands. He knelt on the cool tile for a long time, clinging to the sink, teeth gritted, water dripping off his face onto the floor.

But the voice in his head had gone silent.

After an endless time the pain receded. He reached out with his left hand and grabbed the towel hanging there. He gently patted his face dry, setting new fires as he did, then hung the towel up again. He staggered into the bedroom and fell across the bed.

The voice inside pouted, sullen and angry. But it remained silent.

“Got you, you fucker,” Sands whispered, and fainted.

**** 

The next morning he had a dull headache, a reminder of the drastic measures he was sometimes forced to take in order to maintain his precarious hold on sanity. He shuffled into the kitchen, feeling almost hungover, and pissed as hell.

El was sitting at the table, drinking strong-smelling coffee. Sands walked past him without a word. He had nothing to say to El.

Yet.

He went to the utensil drawer beside the sink. He opened it and reached inside carefully; Chiclet knew to put things away in the right place, but El often forgot. Or so he claimed. Sands wasn’t so sure of that. He thought El liked to mess with him sometimes, just to see what he would do. Nor was the autumn so far behind them, when El had deliberately misplaced things, just to piss him off and leave him groping for an object that was no longer there.

But today he found what he wanted easily. He removed it from the drawer, making no effort to hide what he was doing. He could hear the sounds of a coffee cup being set down, and he knew El was not paying him any attention right now.

He closed the utensil drawer – leaving drawers open where he could bang a hip or elbow into them was not allowed – and turned around.

El was sitting at the head of the table, with his back to Sands, a position he would never have allowed himself to be found in a year ago. This was good. It had been a while since El had felt the need to be on his guard around him, and that was even better. It meant today’s lesson would be that much more effective.

Swiftly, silently, he swooped down on his prey. He seized a handful of El’s hair and yanked the mariachi’s head back. With his right hand, he held the butcher knife to El’s throat.

He leaned in, so close he could have kissed El’s ear, had he wanted. “What the fuck were you doing in my room last night?” he whispered.

El sat very still. Only his rapid breathing betrayed him. “What?”

Sands let the blade of the knife touch El’s skin. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

“I was not,” El said.

“Really?” Sands said, his voice light. He pressed with the blade. From El’s wince and indrawn breath, he knew he had just cut the mariachi.

“I didn’t go in,” El said hastily. “I just opened the door.”

“You just opened the door. I see.” He considered this. As soon as he had woken up this morning, he had realized that the answer to the mystery noises last night was staring him in the face. Or rather, sitting in his kitchen. “Why?”

El was breathing shallowly. It had been a long time – if ever – since El had been afraid of him, and Sands savored the sensation. It was nice to hold all the power again. “I heard something. I wanted to see if you were all right.” The mariachi tried to shrug, as though this was nothing.

“You heard something,” Sands said. He had found this act of repetition to be a very effective tool in interrogations. Repeat the victim’s words back to them often enough, and they would get confused. They were more apt to slip up, and reveal something they hadn’t intended. “So you got out of bed, walked down the hall, opened my door, and just stood there.”

“Yes,” El said, trying to sound casual. “You would have been pissed if you knew I was there.”

“You heard a sound,” Sands said, as though he was trying to solve a difficult puzzle by talking his way through it, “and you worried about me. Which, by the way, is very sweet of you. But instead of running down the hall and flinging my door open, in case I was being murdered or something, you crept down the hall and slowly opened the door so I would not hear it.”

He pressed again with the knife. “What the fuck are you up to, El?”

El flinched. “Stop. You’re hurting me.”

“Good,” Sands said, right into El’s ear. “If you don’t want to get hurt any more, you’ll listen to me.”

“I don’t understand,” El said, doing his best Little Lost Mariachi impression. “Why are you so angry?”

“You don’t understand,” Sands repeated flatly. Christ. He had thought El’s intelligence had bottomed out, but here was evidence to the contrary.

He let go of El’s hair. Quickly, before the mariachi could pull away, he put his arm over El’s face, pressing El’s head back against his stomach. His arm covered El’s eyes. “Tell me,” he said casually, twitching the knife, dancing the blade across El’s throat, “what am I doing now?”

El did not move. Now he was barely breathing. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Why not?” 

El took a long time to answer, and when he did, he sounded defeated. “Because I can’t see you.”

“I could be doing anything, and you wouldn’t know. I could be getting ready to stick this knife in you, and you wouldn’t know it until it happened.” He slid the knife across El’s throat, furthering the shallow cut he had made.

El stiffened.

“Are you afraid?” he asked.

“Yes,” El whispered.

“Now ask me again,” Sands said, “why I’m so pissed off.”

El held his breath for a long moment, then slumped. But only a little. With the knife to his throat, a little slump was all he could manage. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry.” 

“I did not realize,” El said.

“Of course you didn’t,” Sands said patiently. “That’s because you are a fucking idiot.”

El had no response to this.

“If you ever do anything like that again, I’m just going to shoot,” he said. “No questions asked, no wondering what the hell is going on. Just shooting. Savvy?”

“Yes,” El said.

“Good. Because I would hate to have to shoot you, El.” He relaxed his hold on the knife a little. The lesson had been learned. It was time to put the weapons away and smile.

“I am sorry,” El said again.

Sands shook his head. “Yes, I heard that part.”

El continued as if he had not interrupted. “I am sorry for all the people who have hurt you. I am sorry that you feel you must hate me.”

A jolt went through him. Damn, but El was good, coming up with zingers like that, reminding him that he had very few secrets left from the mariachi. He gave a snort, trying to sound scornful. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

But El’s words had hit him. Hard. A succession of faces paraded past his mind’s eye, all of them laughing, some of them having no faces at all because he had never seen them as they laughed at him. All of them had names, but some of them had names that he never allowed himself to think, because he could not bear to.

“Tell me I am wrong,” El said.

“I thought I told you to quit with the psychologist bullshit,” Sands snapped.

“Then I will tell you why you hate me,” El said.

“Really?” For someone with a knife at his throat, El was feeling awfully brazen. Maybe he was going to have to teach the mariachi two lessons today.

“You hate me because you trust me, and you don’t like that. You don’t know how to handle trust.”

“Oh for Christ’s sake!” He was not going to stand here and listen to this anymore. He removed his arm from El’s eyes and plunged the butcher knife into the tabletop, stabbing down it hard so the point stuck in the wood. He had an idea El’s hand had been there only a few seconds before, but he didn’t care. “I have had enough of this.” He turned and began stalking away.

And El moved.

Fast. 

Chair legs scraped, and clothing rustled. Wood and metal squealed as the knife was yanked free. Sands had barely begun to turn around when El grabbed him. He struggled, but El was fast and El was stronger, and before he knew it, he was bent facedown over the table, his left wrist twisted up behind him and the point of the butcher knife touching his cheek.

“You cut me,” El said quietly.

“Fuck you,” he snarled. He didn’t know who he was more pissed with – El for getting the drop on him, or himself for allowing it to happen.

“I have played your games,” El said, “but I am getting tired of them. Either you learn to trust me, or this ends. Today.”

“What ends?” he scoffed. El’s coffee had spilled when he had struck the table, and the smell was overpowering. “You think we have something here, El?”

The knife was removed from his cheek. He started to breathe a little easier, then tensed again as he felt the blade at his neck. “What are you doing?”

“Just trust me,” El said.

The tip of the blade pushed his hair aside, exposing the back of his neck. El drew the knife across his skin, lightly, barely applying any pressure.

Sands remained very still. If he moved now, he would be cut, and he had no intention of letting that happen. El was trying to psych him out, but El didn’t know who he was dealing with.

The blade trailed lower, over his shoulder, past his trapped hand and down his back. El traced gentle circles and other, more obscure patterns. The movements would start to come together, the arcane symbols almost becoming visible, then they would rise again, beyond his comprehension. The only sounds in the room were the soft rasp of the blade against his T-shirt, and his own, shallow breathing.

And was it possible, that this was arousing him?

Christ, it was.

His hips jerked, and the knife slipped. A thin line of fire scored across his upper back. Sands flinched. “Fuck!”

“That was your fault,” El said reprovingly. “I told you to trust me.”

The knife started moving again, trailing up his side. Sands tensed. He was not aroused any more.

Suddenly what had started out as a game was not funny. Not in the slightest. This was a contest of wills, and he was going to lose. He knew it.

He tried to free his wrist from El’s firm grip. “Let me go.”

El ignored him. Sands fought against a rising panic. Bad things happened when he was held down. Very bad things.

“Let go of me!” He gathered himself, knowing he would have only one chance at this. His left wrist was held too firmly, there was no going that direction. With all his strength he pushed himself to the right, rolling along the tabletop.

Into the knife. El yanked it away, but not quick enough. The cut this time went deep.

El let go of him. Sands staggered upright and whirled around, putting his back to the table. Blood ran down his right side where the knife had cut him. He drew his pistol and aimed at El, trying unsuccessfully to slow his racing heart.

“Are you going to shoot me?” El asked.

“I should,” he gasped. The cut hurt, but worse was that sense of trapped panic. He had to relive that feeling in his nightmares all the time; it was not fair that he should be forced to feel it during the day. “Give me a reason not to.”

“You need that cut bandaged,” El said. “I will do it.”

“Damn straight you will,” he said, not liking the way his voice shook. “You did this to me, you fuck.”

“I am sorry,” El said, and he sounded sincerely contrite. “I only wanted--”

“For me to trust you, yeah, yeah, yeah, I get it. Guess what, El? I don’t think it worked that time either.” He fought the urge to reach up and press his hand to the cut. Not in front of El. In front of El he would be damned if he showed any pain. He had only a few shreds of dignity left. He meant to hold onto them as tightly as he could.

“Come on,” El said. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

For a moment Sands considered shooting him anyway, then he shrugged. He put the gun back in its holster. He would let El fix him up. He could always shoot the mariachi later.

That was another one of his rules. Take whatever you could from someone, and when they had nothing more of use to give, get rid of them.

It was a good rule to live by. So why then, he wondered as he followed El to the bathroom, was El still alive?

*********

Chapter 3: Wondering

 

El led the way into the bathroom. He opened the cabinet beneath the sink and drew out a first-aid kit. He remembered the day Ramirez had brought it home. That had been the FBI agent’s last trip ever to the market, and it had exhausted the man. He had spent the rest of the day huddled in his armchair, a pinched expression on his face. El wondered what Ramirez would say if he could see the two men living in his house now.

Sands lowered the lid of the toilet and sat down. “I can’t believe you cut me,” he muttered.

El said nothing. He could hardly believe it himself.

That strange bewilderment had come over him again. He felt at a loss to explain himself and his actions. He could not understand why he had done it. And he didn’t like feeling that way. He was a simple man, really, and he was not used to such complex emotions. He didn’t like knowing that there were whole thought processes going on beneath his conscious brain, decisions being made and emotions being felt that he knew nothing about. It made him uneasy, and on edge.

As a consequence, he was rougher than he had intended as he yanked Sands’ shirt up to expose the gash in his side. Sands cursed and flinched back. “Jesus, El.”

With an effort, El reined himself in. He took a deep breath and knelt down, so he could see what he was doing better.

The knife had scored a diagonal line across Sands’ side, sloping up as it went around his back. The cut was not long, but it went deep. It was still bleeding, so El just took a handful of gauze from the first-aid kit and slapped it over the wound.

Sands flinched again. “Christ, that’s some bedside manner you’ve got there. I think I’m going to start calling you Florence Nightingale.”

El held the gauze with one hand, and lifted Sands’ T-shirt a little more, so he could see the other cut, which was higher on his back. This one had stopped bleeding, but the shirt had been sticking to the wound, and when El moved the fabric, the cut began to seep again.

El let the shirt drop back. “Take this off.”

Sands jerked. “What?” The word came out sounding curiously airless.

“I can’t see what I’m doing,” El said. “So take it off. It’s ruined anyway.”

“Yeah, funny how often that happens around you. I think I’ve gone through an entire wardrobe since meeting you.”

“You’re better off without them,” El said without thinking.

Sands chuckled. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did my clothing offend?” He sounded highly amused by the very idea.

El thought of their first meeting in the cantina. The striped shirt. The big cowboy hat. It had been hard to take Sands seriously – until the agent started talking, that was. Then everything had changed. “You looked stupid,” he said shortly. “Now take this off.”

“And if say no?” Sands asked, still amused.

“Then I will do it for you,” El shrugged.

A long moment passed when El thought maybe he had pushed too hard and too far, that Sands would just snap and turn on him. Then Sands gave a small shrug, and pulled the bloody shirt off. He winced as he raised his right arm and El moved with him, to keep the gauze pressed to the wound on his side.

The shirt fell to the floor. El stayed still, applying pressure, waiting patiently for the cut to stop bleeding. He kept his eyes on the floor.

The strange thing was that he had been here before. Almost in this exact same position. But that had been nine years ago, and everything had been different then.

He could not even remember the name of the town. He, Quino and Campa had been playing in a bar, making shit money but having fun anyway. They were young, full of music and laughter, and living life the way they wanted to. They were the first friends he had made after the disaster in Acuña, and he had been incredibly grateful to them for giving him a chance. They had helped him become a better musician, and more importantly, they had taught him how to handle the weapons that life had forced upon him. 

One night a fight had broken out in the bar. During the melee, Quino had been hit with a broken bottle, and the glass had cut him open, right across his chest. After it was all over El had taken him into the bathroom and tended him, cleaning and bandaging the wound, all the while sharing a bottle of tequila with his friend.

It had happened nine years ago, and El’s memory of it was not the best any more, but he knew without a doubt that there had not been any tension in the air that night. None whatsoever.

Not like today.

He couldn’t understand. This was not the tension between two men who wanted to kill each other. He did not worry that Sands would attack him. There was a very good chance that Sands would take his revenge for what had happened today, but not now. The agent was too self-serving for that. He would allow El to help him before he made his move. So El was not concerned about reprisal right now.

No, it felt more like the tension that had followed him down the hall last night as he had crept toward Sands’ room. He had barely opened the door when he had seen the agent’s feet and legs. Realizing Sands was very much awake, he had panicked, and shut the door too fast. The sounds had given him away, and he had lain awake the rest of the night, waiting to hear his own door open, for a gun barrel to lead the way into his room.

But nothing had happened. He had begun to think he had gotten away with it.

He should have known better, he thought now.

He took a deep breath and slowly lifted the gauze pads. He looked up. The gauze was soaked through in several places, but the cut had stopped bleeding. This was good.

What was not good was that he could not keep his eyes on what he was doing.

Sands sat very still, his head bowed. His right hand was braced on his thigh, elbow out, the better to give El access to his injured side. The line of his jaw was very tight. He was not happy about any of this, El knew. He wondered which was worst for Sands -- being cut, or being at El’s mercy.

_Why will you not let yourself trust me, my friend? What happened to you?_

He shook his head. He would probably never know the answer to those questions. His hands fumbled as they threw the bloody gauze into the trash can. He stood up, and nearly staggered.

_Santo Dios, what is the matter with me?_

He turned on the water and wet a washcloth. He wrung it out, knelt down again, and gently began to wipe the blood off Sands’ skin. Sands flinched at the first contact of the wet cloth, then was still.

_I’ve been alone for too long_ , he thought. _That is the explanation._

_That is the only explanation._

Sands remained still. He seemed to have decided that the best way to get through this was to endure silently, and get it over with as quickly as possible.

With a mental sigh of surrender, El gave up trying to concentrate on what he was doing, and let his eyes wander over Sands.

He was beautiful, El thought. He was not very tall, and he was so slender that his strength was well-hidden. Only now, seeing the fine muscles on his back, chest and arms, was it apparent where that strength came from.

_No wonder he can knock me out with one punch._

The scars in his left arm went all the way through, mementos of his confrontations with the drug cartels, first on the Day of the Dead, then again at Ramon Escalante’s hacienda. Another thin scar crossed his upper abdomen, and El knew with just one glance that this one was a knife wound. It looked old, very old. He remembered Sands’ story of the first men he had killed, how they had carried knives, and wondered if one of those men had cut him.

The scar on his chest was accompanied by a thin, straight mark, legacy of the surgery that had removed the bullet. He had come close to dying that day, El knew, closer than ever before. The memories of that day at Escalante’s hacienda were still vague in his mind, but he remembered quite clearly the way Sands had leaned on him as they had staggered across the courtyard.

He dropped the bloody cloth to the floor and reached for the first-aid kit. “You need stitches,” he said.

“If you even think about sticking a needle in me,” Sands snapped, “I’m going to break your fingers.”

El nodded. “Then you will have to stay in bed for a day or two, so this can begin to heal.”

“Fuck that,” Sands said. “Just slap a bandage on it, and I’ll be fine.”

“No,” El said, very seriously. “You will do yourself real damage if you do not rest for a few days.”

Sands sighed heavily. “All right, all right. _Florence.”_

Feeling reassured that all his work here would not be undone the very next day, El set about cleaning and bandaging the two cuts he had made. He worked slowly, as gently as he could. Some days Sands pissed him off so much he would have gladly done the agent harm, but today was not one of those days.

He was reminded, oddly enough, of his daughter. She had known no fear, and she had continually found new ways to injure herself in her bold exploration of the world around her. She climbed, crawled, jumped, ran, and grabbed whatever and whenever, without hesitation. He had mended her skinned knees and scraped elbows more times than he could count, singing a sweet _canción_ as he worked, drying her tears with a tissue and staying with her until she was smiling and ready to take on the world again.

And it was strange, and it was illogical, but he felt that same protectiveness now. That same desire to stand up and prevent the world and all its dangers from coming any closer to the one he cared about.

He smoothed the bandage over the first cut, the one high on Sands’ back. He brushed his fingers over the fabric in a repetitive stroking motion, making sure it lay flat. And it took only a slight shift to the right for his fingers to find Sands’ skin.

His fingers were shaking, but he did not stop. They kept stroking, lightly, not wanting to alarm.

And Sands, to his amazement, did not stop him.

_Too long_ , he thought. _No man should be alone for too long._

He suddenly remembered the day he had explored Sands’ face with his fingertips, his eyes closed as though he was the blind man. A shiver ran through him, and he jerked his hand back. Sands startled, and El abruptly realized that the agent had been half-asleep, or something similar. That was why he had not stopped El from touching him.

“You’ll be fine.” He stood up, and turned around to leave. Suddenly the bathroom seemed far too small. He felt suffocated, hardly able to breathe around the constriction that gripped his chest. He needed to go outside, and feel the wind on his face.

“What was that all about?” Sands demanded. He wanted to be pissed, maybe, but he didn’t sound too angry.

He sounded, El thought with surprise, almost wistful.

“Nothing,” he said. 

Sands shook his head, chuckling. The laugh only sounded partially forced. “El Mariachi, ladies and gentlemen. Mexico’s premiere psychologist, slowest field surgeon, and the loneliest man of them all.”

Bristling, El whirled around. “Fuck you.” He drew his arm back, fully intending to strike Sands.

And then he stopped. Sands was still sitting there, smirking at him, but he had turned his face up. He was waiting for El to hit him, expecting El to hit him.

Wanting El to hit him.

There had been a time when Sands had needed no motivation to strike out at El. The mariachi felt sick to his stomach. He dropped his hand back to his side. “I know what you’re doing,” he said.

“Oh yeah? What am I doing?”

“You want me to hit you, so you can hit me back. You want me to justify your mistrust. Only I am not going to do it.” He swallowed hard. He strove to sound sincere, wanting, needing Sands to believe him. “I am not going to hurt you.”

Sands made a non-committal sound. He stood up and walked toward the door, forcing El to press himself up against the sink so the agent could pass him by. “Maybe so, El. Maybe so. But you’re still a lousy friend.”

Just like that, he was furious again. Even the knowledge that Sands was baiting him made him no less angry. “How would you know?”

In the doorway, Sands stopped dead in his tracks. He stood there for a moment, just long enough for El to regret the cruelty of what he had said. “Because I know what kind of friend I have always wanted. And you are not it.”

El reached behind him and gripped the edge of the countertop at his back. “That is because I don’t let you control me,” he said. “I don’t let you walk all over me. That is what’s missing from your pretty picture.”

He walked out, shouldering Sands hard into the doorway as he squeezed his way past the agent and into the hall.

“Who’s walking all over who?” Sands called after him. “I just let you feel me up. So you tell me, who’s walking all over who?”

El stopped. His hands curled into fists. _I am not going to give in to him. I am not._

“Christ,” Sands swore. He stepped from the doorway and turned right, heading for his own room. “You’re a real piece of work, El.”

Refusing to say anything, El walked quickly down the hall. He shoved the front door open so hard it banged against the outer wall of the house and rebounded, nearly smashing him in the face.

He just swatted it aside and kept right on walking.

****

He had walked all the way into town before he was able to calm down.

He went into the cantina and ordered a beer. He drained it in one swallow and ordered another. His head ached dully, and there was a faint pink tint to the skin of his hands – stain left by Sands’ blood.

He stared down at his hands for a very long time.

The day he and Carolina had escaped Marquez’s soldiers, they had fled to one of the many small, nameless towns that dotted the landscape of Mexico. They had taken shelter in an abandoned house on the outskirts of the village just as evening fell. Still chained together, trembling with spent energy and passion, they had made love for hours. The chain had excited him, seeing the silver links against Carolina’s golden skin, feeling the metal turn warm with their body heat.

He had always known he was a passionate man. It was one reason he had wanted to be a mariachi, like his ancestors. To love music was to embrace passion, and he had accepted this about himself with open arms.

Except now that passion was about to be his undoing. For so long he had kept himself carefully in check, mindful of everything he said and did. After Carolina’s death, he never got upset, or excited, or allowed himself any strong emotion. Not until Cucuy had come for him, and he had met Sands.

Then he had felt again.

Then he had hated.

But that was in the past. Marquez was dead, Barillo was dead, and he had found a friend in the unlikeliest person of all.

Since Carolina’s death, he had needed a friend. So for two years, that friendship with Sands – violent and cautious at first, then gradually softening – had been enough.

He was beginning to realize that it was not enough anymore.

He wanted more. He needed more. And there was no one else in his life, no one who might possibly provide that more.

Except one person.

“No,” El whispered. “It can’t be.”

But it didn’t matter. His brain could argue with his heart all it wanted, but it would lose that argument. It always had, and it always would.

_Even if I wanted to – which I don’t think I do – he would never._

Which answered that question, swift and simple.

It wasn’t much of an answer, but it was something. Feeling slightly better about the whole thing, El paid for his beers and began the long walk back to his house.

****

As he was walking up the driveway, he heard high, childish laughter coming from the backyard.

Chiclet was here. He frowned. He had been gone longer than he had thought, if this was the case. He had left mid-morning, and if Chiclet was here, that meant it was late afternoon, and school was out for the day. 

The laughter in the backyard got louder. Then it abruptly changed into a scream.

El broke into a run. He sprinted past the house and into the backyard, just as the scream became shrill peals of laughter again. He slid to a panting halt, wide-eyed and feeling very stupid.

Somehow – he would never know how – Chiclet had persuaded Sands to play a game with him. A misshapen soccer ball lay in the grass about halfway across the yard. Sands had been standing between two trees that had obviously served as the goal. Chiclet had been running past, trying to kick the ball between the trees, and instead of blocking the kick, Sands had merely reached out and grabbed the kid, tackling him and taking them both to the ground.

Chiclet was laughing so hard he was wheezing. “No fair!” he shouted. “You cheated!” He lunged for his feet and Sands pulled him down again. The boy struck the ground and lay there, clutching his stomach and laughing.

“Well come on,” Sands said, sitting up. He was grinning. “You need to learn how to feint. You were so obvious, even a blind man could see you coming.”

Chiclet gaped at him for moment, then shrieked with laughter. “You saw me coming!” he cried in delight, and tackled Sands, sending them both to the grass again.

Sands went down under the kid’s assault, protesting, laughing.

El’s heart stopped.

Sands was laughing.

Not with sarcasm, or mocking cynicism. This was genuine laughter, the first El had ever heard from him.

His heart started up again, but each beat was accompanied by a stab of pain. That laughter touched him in the place where all his confusion originated. He would never be able to make Sands laugh like that.

Sands had Chiclet, but who did he have?

When he saw the mariachi standing there, Chiclet abruptly stopped laughing. He scrambled to his feet. “We were just playing,” he said.

Sands sat up, but remained on the grass. He did not turn his head. “Is it El?”

“Sí,” said the boy.

“Of course. Who else would be such a killjoy?” Sands sighed. He stood up, and El saw him wince, although he tried to hide it. He wondered suddenly how much it had hurt the agent to play games with Chiclet, and marveled again at the connection Sands had made with the boy.

“You do not have to stop,” El said, knowing that it was too late.

“I have homework to do,” Chiclet said. He gazed wistfully at his soccer ball, then looked up at Sands. “Can we play again tomorrow?”

“We’ll see,” Sands said. “Go inside.”

Chiclet nodded. He headed for the house. When he reached the steps leading to the back porch, he paused to look over his shoulder, and cast a doubtful glance at El. 

When the screen door had shut, Sands folded his arms. “Have a nice walk?”

El just stared at him. There was a single blade of grass caught in Sands’ hair, and El could not take his eyes off it, how green it was.

“You want to leave, is that it?”

He blinked. “What?”

“I said, do you want to leave?”

“What do you mean?”

“You tell me, El.” Sands sounded tired. “You’ve been a shit ever since Lorenzo died, and hell if I can figure it out. So I’m asking now, and then I won’t ask again, do you want to leave this house?”

The thought had never occurred to him. Bad things had happened in this house, but El would not dream of leaving. He had settled here, for good or for ill. Culiacan was his home now. “No,” he said.

“Then what the fuck is the matter with you?” Sands demanded. 

El thought about the answer he had found to his problem while sitting in the cantina. It was not much, but it would have to do. There were no other answers. “Nothing,” he said. He turned and headed for the house.

“There is nothing wrong with me,” he said.

********

Chapter 4: Resolving

 

The days passed, each one slipping by much like the others that had come before it. El went about his daily routine, just as he had before all the confusion had started. He did not get up in the middle of the night and prowl the house anymore. He kept his eyes on what he was doing, and he did not demand that Sands trust him.

Because now every day seemed just like the one that had come before it, El had no idea how much time had really passed until one day he answered a knock on the door and saw the priest standing there.

The priest had a favor to ask the great mariachi who always donated so generously during the Sunday services. Christmas was just a few days away. The children wanted to go caroling through the village. Would the mariachi accompany them on his guitar?

El stared at the priest for a long moment. It was nearly Christmas, and he had not even noticed. He went into town almost every day, and walked past shops with decorations in the windows, and he had seen none of them. Now that he was reminded of what time of year it was, he remembered hearing Chiclet telling Sands all the things he wanted for Christmas, things he supposed he wouldn’t be getting, because of his family’s poverty.

_Christmas_ , he thought. _Merry Christmas._

_Feliz Navidad, Carolina._

“No, Padre,” he said. “I cannot.”

“Please,” said the priest. “It would mean so much to the children.”

Children, El thought. He had had a daughter once. A bright little girl with her mother’s smile and her father’s love of music. But an uncaring world had allowed her to be gunned down in the middle of the street, and now that daughter was gone.

_There are no children for me, Padre. You are asking the wrong man._

And then he looked up, over the priest’s shoulder, to the small figure on the bike just turning into the driveway.

Chiclet. The boy had an uncanny knack for showing up when he was needed most.

It occurred to him that he did have a child in his life. In a way, Chiclet had come to replace the daughter he had lost, a daughter who would be only a few years younger than Chiclet, had she lived.

_If she had lived, you would not be here today_ , said the drawling voice in his head, the one that always made him justify his actions.

El sighed. He gave the priest what he hoped was a friendly smile. “All right,” he said. “I will do it.”

****

Now that he had been reminded of his responsibilities, he wasted no time. The day the priest visited him, he went out and got a tree. He bought candy and ice cream, and he managed to smile at the shopkeepers as they chattered about inconsequential things while wrapping up his purchases. He tried to remember some of the things Chiclet had wanted for Christmas, and bought the ones he could find; and he made a mental note to ask Sands about the rest of the list.

Chiclet was ecstatic over the sudden holiday preparations. That evening they decorated the tree, while Sands sat in the corner making remarks like, “You missed a spot,” and, “That looks terrible, move it to another branch.” Chiclet giggled at each of these comments, and Sands dutifully continued offering them up, but El saw the toll they took on the agent – Sands often made sarcastic asides about his blindness, but lately the subject had been a sore one, and talking about it was not doing him any good.

Several times El tried to speak up and find a tactful way to tell Chiclet to stop laughing, but he could not think of the right words. And even if he could, Sands would know he had spoken only out of pity, and would be pissed. So he stayed silent.

Sometimes it was better to leave well enough alone.

When they were finished, El plugged in the lights, and the whole tree came to life. Chiclet clapped his hands and jumped with delight. Sands gave him an obliging smile, and even El had to admit that they had done a good job.

“Señor?” El looked down at a small tap on his arm. “Can I show you something?”

He followed Chiclet out of the room. He had rarely seen such a serious expression on the boy’s face, and he could not help feeling a pang of worry. He could not imagine what would make Chiclet look so. “What is it?”

Chiclet led him outside, to the bike propped against the porch wall. The boy reached into his shapeless knapsack and came out with a small rectangular object. He held it up for El to see, his face very solemn.

It looked like a wallet. The black leather looked abused, as though it had been kicked, often and hard, or else thrown against walls by furious hands.

El opened it up, and gasped in shock.

It was Sands’ CIA badge.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded.

Chiclet swallowed hard. “That day,” he said. “Señor Ramirez sent me to get his things. My parents sold what they could, for the money, but I kept this. I didn’t tell them I had it.” He glanced at the house, perhaps expecting to see Sands standing in the doorway, glaring hatred at him for daring to keep this reminder of the past. “I kept it, to remember him. I didn’t know if I should give it back. But I thought...maybe...for Christmas?” His voice trailed off uncertainly.

El stared down at the badge. The seal of the Central Intelligence Agency was on one side of the billfold, and a photo ID was on the other. The man in the photo was young, and he was staring intensely at the camera, without a trace of humor in his expression. His eyes were dark and pitiless.

They were the eyes of a killer.

El shivered. Staring down at the picture, it seemed incredible to think that he had come so close to forgetting Sands’ eyes, and how they had looked right through him.

Chiclet touched the clear laminate over the photo. “I never saw his eyes,” he said.

El looked up at him, surprised. He had been under the impression that Sands had met the boy before the Day of the Dead.

“He wore sunglasses when I first met him,” Chiclet said. He smiled, a rather wistful smile. “He told me to fuck off then, too.”

El snapped the badge shut. He gave it back to Chiclet. “Here.”

“Should I give it to him?” the boy asked. He thrust it back into his knapsack.

“I don’t know,” El said truthfully. He had no idea what to tell the boy. Part of him thought it might be interesting to see Sands’ reaction. The rest of him thought it would be a very bad idea.

He opened the screen door. “Come on. Let’s go back in.”

****

Sands was just settling himself back in the armchair when El returned to the room. The agent had a fresh beer in one hand. If El had counted right, that made his sixth of the night. “What the hell were you doing out there?”

“Nothing that concerns you,” El said.

“We were talking about Christmas,” Chiclet said. El cast him a grateful look. Since the day Chiclet had caught him spying on Sands, he had felt as though the boy was an unwilling partner in their conspiracy. Now he was not so sure. Perhaps Chiclet really did want to help him.

“Christmas,” Sands scoffed. “It can’t be Christmas without snow. Jingle bells and all that crap, you know?” He drained half his beer.

“Snow!” Chiclet’s eyes lit up. “I have never seen snow before. What’s it like?”

El looked at Sands expectantly. This too was something he had always wondered.

“It’s cold,” Sands said. “It’s heavy, it’s messy, and within a few hours it turns brown and nasty. It’s a pain in the ass and you’re not missing anything by not having it down here. Trust me.

“And you shouldn’t even be happy about Christmas, kid,” Sands continued. “It’s just one day out of the year when everybody fools themselves into thinking they’re nice people, and everyone talks about things like peace on earth, and goodwill to man. Then they wake up the next day, look at the crap they got as presents, and bitch and moan about how they didn’t get what they really wanted, and they take it all back and exchange it for something they did want. Then they go out to parties and make New Year’s Resolutions they don’t intend to keep. They get really drunk and throw up in the hostess’ planters, and they go home and kick the dog, and life starts all over again. Yeah, kid, the holidays are a great time of year.”

Chiclet looked like he was going to cry. El entertained a brief fantasy of picking Sands up by the hair and tossing him out into the backyard.

Then Chiclet gave himself a shake. “What’s New Year’s Resolutions?”

Sands heaved a sigh. “What, don’t they do that down here in Mexico?”

El shrugged. He knew what the custom was.

“Here,” Sands said. “A New Year’s Resolution is when you take a good long look at yourself, and you see all the crap that’s wrong with you, and you decide to change those things. You resolve to do it. So in your case, you would resolve to be a better soccer player. Or not to whine so much. That kind of thing.”

“That’s enough,” El snapped. He could tolerate almost any abuse for himself, but he hated to see Sands take his anger out on the boy, even if Chiclet himself swore he didn’t mind.

“You, El my dear friend, would do well to resolve to stop being such a fucking prick.” Sands gave him a humorless smile, and finished his beer.

“And you?” El asked coldly. “What will you resolve?”

“Well, the same thing I resolve every year. To keep the balance. To stay in control. Very simple. The best resolutions are the ones you can actually keep, you know.”

“That is not changing anything about yourself,” El said.

Sands chuckled. “Haven’t you figured it out yet, El? People like me don’t change. We never change.” He stood up, a bit unsteady on his feet, but still a long way from being drunk. “Go home, Chiclet. It’s getting late.” He left the living room, heading for his bedroom.

El turned to the boy, intending to apologize on Sands’ behalf. One look at Chiclet, however, showed him that there was no need.

“We need to help him faster,” Chiclet said, very quietly.

****

El had never made a New Year’s Resolution before. He didn’t know how. He didn’t like the idea of self-examination. He had been doing that too often lately, and he was not eager to start anew. 

A resolution was supposed to change something about yourself. He did not want to look at himself and change anything. And Chiclet was just fine as he was.

Which left only Sands.

How could you make a man like that change? El knew it could be done – for proof, he had only to look at the way things were now, and then remember the way Sands had tried to kill him when they had met again for the first time at Ramirez’s house, the day after the coup. So Sands was capable of change, but the question was, how far could he go? How far was he willing to go?

He thought of the bitterness that had laced Sands’ voice as he described the holidays to Chiclet, the way he had said things like, “Don’t put that ornament there, Chiclet, I can’t see the first one on the branch if you do that.” And he remembered the soccer game he had interrupted, the way the man and the boy had lain on the grass, laughing.

_That’s it_ , El thought. _That is what I would change for him. I would hear him laugh again._

_I would make him happy._

****

In the following days, El found that making a New Year’s Resolution was easy.

Keeping it, however, could be next to impossible.

He had no idea how to make Sands happy. He suspected that the things the agent would find pleasing were things that would send the rest of the world screaming in horror. He remembered the way Sands had tortured the soldier in Villa de Cos, how delighted Sands had been for the chance to hurt another person, and he shuddered. Perhaps he had made the wrong resolution.

But he did not give up completely. As he walked home after accompanying the children on their caroling, his guitar slung across his back, he pondered his next course of action. How did a man achieve the impossible?

“Señor!” A bell rang out. He looked up as Chiclet rode past on his bike, one hand waving merrily.

It was Christmas Eve. El smiled and raised his hand in return, even though the boy was already past him, facing forward again, and could not see him.

He gazed after the boy, watching the bike and its figure grow smaller in his vision. 

How did a man achieve the impossible?

And suddenly he knew.

****

When dinner was eaten, El cleared the dishes and told Chiclet to go home. “You should be with your family tonight. You can come by tomorrow, and we will exchange gifts then.”

“Okay.” The boy had not mentioned the CIA badge again, and El did not know if he had decided to give it to Sands or not.

When Chiclet had left, El grabbed his car keys. “Come. We are going.”

Sands sat up a little, frowning. “Going where?”

“I spoke to the priest today,” El said. “A man came to him and made confession. He spoke of drug dealings, and killing. He was asked to do these things by the cartel. I thought we would pay him a visit.”

“On Christmas Eve?” Sands stood up, a delighted grin spreading across his face. “Why El, I think I’ve misjudged you all this time!”

They drove out of the village. The night was very dark, and the stars overhead looked chill and lonely. There was no traffic out here, and they had the road to themselves. Although it was the end of December, the night air was warm. El rolled down his window and turned on the radio.

Sands scowled and reached for the knob, but El stopped him. “Leave it on. Please?”

Sands sighed, but he left the radio on.

When the village was several miles behind them, El turned around, making a great arc across the road so they were pointed in the direction of the village again. He pulled the car over to the side of the road.

“Why are we stopping?” Sands asked. Earlier in the evening, during dinner, he had been silent to the point of withdrawal, but now he was very alert. One hand rested at his hip, and the gun hanging there.

El said nothing. He got out of the car and walked around the front, squinting as he crossed the path of the headlights. He went up to the passenger side and rapped on the lowered window. “Move over.”

“What’s going on?” Sands demanded, suspicion in his voice.

“We are going home,” El said. He opened the door.

Sands did not move. He seemed utterly confused, an emotion that looked out of place on him. “El?”

El started to get into the car, forcing Sands to move over into the driver’s seat. “You wish for control,” he said. “I give it to you. Merry Christmas, Agent Sands.”

For a long, long moment Sands just sat there. The DJ on the radio made a few announcements, then some commercials started to play. The night breeze blew into the car, stirring El’s hair against his cheek.

At last Sands said, “I didn’t know you had a deathwish, El.”

“I do not,” El said. “Nor do you, despite what you want me to think.” He pulled on his seat belt. “I will guide you,” he said. “Do you trust me?”

On the radio, the commercials ended. A song began, something with a pounding rhythm and no words. Sands gave El a hard grin. “I guess it’s time we found out, isn’t it?”

He slammed the car into drive and pulled onto the road.

Immediately El said, “Left a little.”

Sands straightened the car out. 

The road was fairly straight for miles, and little traveled. When El had conceived of the idea that afternoon, he had thought of this road right away. It was the only place for such a wild experiment, the only place where he might come out of this alive.

Sands stomped on the accelerator. The car shot forward, the needle on the speedometer rising steadily. Wind poured in through the windows, drowning out the radio, whipping their hair about wildly. El held onto the door handle, and felt the start of a wide grin on his face.

“Did you miss this?” he shouted.

“You have no idea!” Sands shouted back. He held the steering wheel tightly, but he kept the car straight, as El had known he would.

Ahead, the road made a small curve to the right. The kind of curve that required minimal correction on a driver’s part. El sat up straighter. “Slow down!” he shouted. “There is a curve coming.”

“Are you sure?” Sands asked.

“What?”

“How do I know I can trust you?” The crooked smile on Sands’ face belied the seriousness of the question.

“Curve!” El shouted.

“Left or right?” Sands asked, obviously very amused.

“Right. A small one.”

“Got it.” The car slowed, although not as much as El would have liked. The roar of the wind died down a little, and the music on the radio became audible again.

“Now,” he commanded. “Turn.”

Sands let the steering wheel drift slightly to the right. The car made the turn riding in the left lane. El decided it didn’t matter. “Straight now,” he said.

The car regained its position in the right lane. They accelerated again. “Do I make you nervous?” Sands taunted. He was grinning.

“Always!” El shouted.

“Good!” Sands yelled back. 

The next curve went to the left, and it was sharper than the first. It was the only place on the road that El worried about. “Slow down!” he cried. “Another curve. Left. Sharp.”

“Got it,” Sands said. The car did not slow.

“Slow down!” El shouted. He redoubled his grip on the door handle.

The curve was approaching. Fast. Too fast. And there was no time for anything, but a single cry. “Turn! Now!”

Sands yanked the wheel left. El was flung against the door. “Not so much!” he shouted.

The car slewed through the curve, heading rapidly for the scrub grass on the side of the road. “Straighten out!” El shouted. Sands let the wheel turn back to its normal position, which put the car solidly in the wrong lane.

Headlights approached them. Someone else was out on this road. “Right, right!” El cried, his heart in his throat.

Sands was laughing. He made no move to return the car to its proper lane.

“A car is coming!” El cried. He knew he should reach out and take the wheel, but he could not move. He felt pinned under the weight of those oncoming headlights.

They came at each other, the only two cars on this lonely road, Christmas Eve night in Culiacan, Mexico.

Sands continued laughing.

At the last moment, the other car swerved into the right lane. It passed them with a blare of horn and a jeering yell from the passengers inside. El became aware that he was shouting, a warning, “Whoaaaa!” noise he was powerless to stop.

Sands never stopped laughing. He held up his right hand, middle finger extended. “Fuck you!” he shouted deliriously.

He gave the steering wheel a twitch to the right, and the car found its own lane again.

El slumped against the door. “You almost got us killed,” he panted.

“What’s the matter?” Sands grinned. “Don’t you trust me, El?”

Suddenly remembering why he had embarked on this crazy outing in the first place, El forgot to be mad. He forgot everything but that smile on Sands’ face.

They were still rocketing along the road, far too fast for the darkness of the night, or the darkness of its driver, for that matter. El no longer cared. He laughed. “Merry Christmas, you crazy bastard!”

“I’m crazy? You’re the one who let me behind the wheel,” Sands laughed.

El just stared at him, grinning like an idiot. He felt stupidly pleased with himself. _If I do nothing else of value in my life, he thought, I will always have this. The night I made a desperately unhappy man happy again, for a short time._

Right then, at that moment, it was enough.

And El Mariachi was a happy man.

*********

Chapter 5: Forgiving

 

Christmas was a disaster.

El kicked himself for it later, for having high hopes, for letting himself forget who he was dealing with. But he was bitterly disappointed, nonetheless.

Sands was already awake when El rose around seven o’clock. The agent was slouched in the armchair. The TV was on, but the volume was turned down so low El could barely hear it.

“Merry Christmas,” he said.

“Shut up,” Sands snapped.

El closed his eyes in defeat. It was too much to ask, apparently, for Sands to remain happy. The good feeling of last night had probably just lasted long enough for him to grow suspicious of El’s motives. Possibly he had decided El had been mocking him. 

“We could go out again tonight,” El offered, hoping this would raise Sands’ spirits.

Sands drew his gun so fast El barely saw his hand move. “If you would like your balls to remain where they are, then I suggest you shut the fuck up. Never mention that to me again, or you’ll be eating your own dick for Christmas dinner. Savvy?”

El was shocked by the virulence of Sands’ hatred. He had not heard the agent sound like that in a long time. “Fine,” he stammered, and went into the kitchen.

_He will not let me in_ , he thought. _Nothing I say, nothing I do makes a difference. I can only get so close, then the door slams in my face._

Out in the living room, the front door slammed. “Feliz Navidad!” Chiclet shouted. “Merry Christmas!”

El forced himself to put on a happier expression. It was Christmas. He had to be cheery, for the boy’s sake, if nothing else.

****

As it turned out, Chiclet stayed for only twenty minutes.

Twenty minutes. That was how long it took for Chiclet to open his presents, and for everything to turn bad.

El knew it would happen, the moment he saw the small wrapped object in Chiclet’s hand. He tried to speak up and stop the boy, but his voice seemed paralyzed, and he could say nothing.

“Here,” Chiclet said, holding out his gift. “This is for you. Feliz Navidad, Señor Sands.”

Sands scowled. He snatched the badge from the boy’s hand. “What is it?”

“Open it,” Chiclet encouraged. He was smiling, his naturally sunny disposition shining through, despite his worry over how his gift would be received.

“Don’t,” El managed, but it came out only as a hoarse croak. No one paid any attention to him.

Sands unwrapped the leather billfold and turned it over in his hand. “What the hell is it?”

Chiclet opened the flap, and El noticed how Sands moved his hands back so he would not touch the boy. “Here.” Chiclet tapped the laminated photo. “It’s you. CIA. I found it, the day...that day. I wanted you to have it back.”

Sands’ face darkened so quickly that Chiclet stumbled back, finally realizing his error.

El rose to his feet, intending to defend the boy -- physically if it became necessary. He had a good feeling it would.

He was too slow. Sands threw the badge, and always, his aim was spot-on. The leather billfold struck Chiclet right between the eyes. The boy dropped to the floor with a squeal of pain.

“What the fuck is this?” Sands shouted. He stood up, batting the crumpled wrapping paper from his gift off his lap and to the floor. To El’s horror, he drew one of his guns. “First El, now you... What are you people doing to me?”

_He’s going to shoot us_ , El thought sickly. _He really is._

He stepped between Sands and the boy. Without looking behind him, he said, “Go outside. Now.”

Chiclet scampered out the front door.

“Put that away,” El said. He kept his voice low, not wanting to startle Sands, and give the man a reason to pull the trigger. 

“Oh, fuck you,” Sands said wearily. “Get out.” He waved the gun at the door. “Just get out. Leave me alone.”

“I live here, too,” El said. “And no one is leaving until you apologize to the boy.”

“I said, get out!” Sands made a feint forward, and El pivoted to the side. He let his fist fly, and felt his whole arm jolt as his knuckles connected with Sands’ jaw.

Sands spun around with the blow and dropped to the floor. His sunglasses fell off, but he did not lose his grip on the gun. With his other hand he immediately began searching for the sunglasses.

El stomped on them. The crunching noise they made as they broke filled him with mean gladness.

“You son of a bitch!” Sands raised the gun, and this time, El knew, nothing would stop him from pulling the trigger.

He kicked the gun from Sands’ fingers, trying hard not to hurt the agent as he did so. The pistol flew across the living room and landed on the glass-topped coffee table that had been Ramirez’s favorite, shattering the glass.

But Sands, even on Christmas morning, wore two guns. And El did not stick around to see if he would use the second one. The mariachi turned and ran for the front door, escaping outside just as two bullets embedded themselves in the doorframe behind him.

Chiclet stood on the porch, crying. A large bruise was already forming on his forehead. El grabbed his arm and ran with him down the steps. “Let’s go,” he said.

****

So instead of the quiet, happy holiday he had envisioned for the three members of his little family, El Mariachi spent Christmas with Chiclet’s large, noisy family.

****

He waited a day before returning to the house. Chiclet’s parents were more than happy to let him stay with them, although it was clear that they were curious about why he even needed the shelter in the first place. But they were good people and they did not ask questions, for which El was thankful.

He spent Christmas night on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and thinking about his lost Carolina. 

The next morning he went to church and made confession. He confessed to the sin of pride, and the padre told him to say two rosaries as penance.

When he returned to Chiclet’s house, he told the boy he was going back. Chiclet began to cry. “I don’t want you to,” he said. “I want you to stay here.”

Surprised, El looked down at him, and the bruise on his forehead. “Why?”

“I hate him!” the boy cried. “He’s always so mean to me!”

El knelt down. He took the boy in his arms and let him cry. He had often wondered if this day would ever come. Chiclet had a generous heart, but no one could withstand the rejection he received on a daily basis, and not be affected by it. And Chiclet, for all his apparent maturity, was still only a child.

“Stay here,” he said. “I will go back and talk to him.”

“He’ll shoot you,” Chiclet sniffled.

“He may try,” El said, knowing this scenario was very likely. More than likely. In fact, at this point, it seemed inevitable. “But I will be all right. Don’t worry.”

“I don’t want to go back,” Chiclet said. He rubbed at his nose. “I don’t want to see him anymore.”

“You do not have to,” El said. “You do what your heart tells you.” He stood up. “Now my heart tells me I must go back.”

“Be careful,” Chiclet said.

“I will,” said El.

****

When he turned up the driveway, he saw the agent right away. Sands was sitting on the front porch. He was wearing an older pair of sunglasses. A gun rested in his lap. “Hello, El,” he said evenly.

El stopped just shy of the steps leading up to the porch. He was not fooled by the agent’s deceptive calm; the danger was not past yet. Even if he had felt inclined to take a chance, all he had to do was look at the bullet hole in the third step, where Sands had once shot at Belinda Harrison, a mere hour before killing her.

“Have a nice Christmas?”

“Yes. You?”

“Not so bad,” Sands said. A dark bruise shadowed his jaw where El had hit him. “What are you doing here?”

“I live here,” El said. He still did not step onto the stairs.

Sands nodded contemplatively. “Fair enough.” He slid the gun back into its holster.

“You should know,” El said, “that the boy does not want to see you again.”

Something flickered across Sands’ face – regret, maybe. “Is he hurt?”

“What do you think?”

“I mean physically.”

“He is bruised. He will be fine.”

“Was that your bright idea? The badge?”

“No. He showed it to me, and asked me what I thought he should do.”

“What did you tell him?”

“I said nothing,” El said. “I did not know what he should do.”

“Do you know...can you even imagine what it felt like...to realize what that was?”

El looked down. He stared at the grass under his boots. “No.”

“Joining the CIA was my own little coup d’etat, if you will,” said Sands. “I had to work for that. Harder than I’ve ever worked for anything in my life. I had to fool them all, you see. Here was something Daddy’s money couldn’t fix. I had to get in on my own merits, convince them all I was one of those slightly twisted geniuses, a bit unstable, but only because I was so damn brilliant. Do you see what I’m getting at, El my dear friend?”

He shook his head. “Tell me.”

“I _earned_ that badge. And now it isn’t even fit to wipe my ass with.”

“I understand,” El said.

“Shut up. You don’t understand anything.” Sands spoke in that careful drawl, which made El more nervous than if he had shouted. “If someone came up to you and handed you a scrap of bloody fabric and said, ‘Here, this is from the dress Carolina was wearing the day Marquez killed her. I kept it all these years but now I thought you should have it,’ what would you say? What would you do?”

“I see your point,” El said.

“No!” Sands snapped. “That isn’t good enough. What would you do, El? Tell me.”

So El thought about it. Truly thought about it. The very idea made him feel sick to his stomach, even though he knew it could not happen, because he had burned the dress that had been stained with Carolina’s blood.

“I would be upset,” he admitted. “I might even kill the one who gave it to me.

“And I understand what you are saying,” he continued, “but Chiclet does not deserve to be treated so badly.”

“You don’t understand anything,” Sands repeated bitterly.

“I do,” El insisted. _More than you know, I think. Because if you did, you would have shot me the moment I approached the house._ He felt brave enough now to mount two of the steps. “But if you felt all that yesterday, why did you not say anything? Why did you have to make everything so ugly? I thought you were going to kill the boy.”

Sands’ mouth tightened into a thin line. “I would never,” he said. “And fuck you, if you think that I would.”

El looked at him. He did believe that Sands would not hurt Chiclet willingly. But he also believed that Sands was not always in control of what he did. Like yesterday. And those were the instances El felt justified in worrying about.

But he let this one go. Now was not the time. “Chiclet cares about you. Why does that frighten you so?”

Sands gave a bitter laugh. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Really?” He let his disbelief weigh in his voice. He knew he was right. No one said, _What are you people doing to me?_ without a good reason. Again he longed to know what Sands was hiding. Why the man found it so hard to trust. Why he could not completely trust even an innocent little boy.

“You frightened the boy; he does not want to see you ever again.”

That regret crossed Sands’ face again, and this time it lingered. He bowed his head, and his hair fell forward, hiding his expression. “I can’t help it,” he finally said.

El wanted to feel sorry for him. He knew the battle Sands fought with his madness, but he had reached the end of his patience. And there were some things that just could not be allowed to happen. Threatening Chiclet was one of them. “He is just a child!” he snapped.

“You think I don’t know that?” Still Sands did not look up. He reminded El of a child himself then, being chastised for something he had done wrong, something he had known was wrong, but that he had done anyway.

The image sickened him. Angry with himself, with Sands, with a world that would allow things like this to happen, he growled, “Then act like it.” He took the remainder of the stairs, so that he stood a few feet away from where Sands sat. “He told me he hates you now,” he said coldly.

Sands winced. He offered El a sickly smile, but he still did not look up. “That’s it. Good. Twist the knife a little. I was beginning to think you didn’t have it in you.”

“Oh, I’m just full of surprises,” El drawled. Before Sands could say anything else to him, he crossed the porch and went inside the house, slamming the door behind him. 

****

El spent the remainder of December in town whenever possible. He visited Chiclet, bringing the boy’s guitar with him, although when the visit was over he always took the guitar back to the house. 

There was not much music during these visits, however. Chiclet had no interest in music anymore. He did not say much at all, in fact. He seemed pleased to see El, but when the mariachi got up to leave, he did not seem to feel anything about it, one way or the other. Once or twice El thought he could have walked away and Chiclet wouldn’t even have known he was gone.

But if Chiclet was miserable, it was nothing compared to what Sands was going through. The agent sat outside all day long now, and all night. He was there when El went to bed, and he was there when El got up. He didn’t eat, and he didn’t sleep, and only El’s sense of self-preservation kept him from going up to the man and saying something. Not that it would have mattered. Sands did not speak anymore.

He still wore his guns, and more than once El found himself standing at the screen door, staring at his friend. He did not think Sands would resort to suicide, not now, after everything they had been through, but he still worried. When Sands was left alone with his thoughts for too long, the results were never good.

For the first time, it dawned on him that the attachment between Sands and Chiclet was not a good thing. He knew the reason Sands sat outside all the time. He was waiting for the sound of the bell on the boy’s bicycle as it came up the driveway. He was waiting for a sound that was never going to come again.

New Year’s came and went. El made no more resolutions.

On the third day of January, he started to take down the Christmas tree, and stopped before he had removed half the ornaments. He just shook his head, and left it in the corner.

This had to stop. He walked out of the house, letting the screen door slam behind him. On the porch, Sands did not even flinch. El stalked past him without a word. He intended to drive into town, get Chiclet, and bring the boy back here.

He was just getting into the car when he glanced in the rearview mirror and saw the bicycle turn into the driveway.

He scrambled out of the car, feeling his heart start to beat faster. 

Chiclet did not ring the bell. When he rode by, El saw he was crying. He dropped his bike into the grass and ran up the porch steps.

On the porch, Sands sat up, looking more alive than he had in days. His head turned from side to side, seeking the source of those running footsteps.

“Señor!” Chiclet ran the last few steps. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” He threw his arms about Sands, and Sands returned the hug so fiercely El feared for the boy’s ribs.

“I’m sorry,” Chiclet wept. “I’m sorry.”

Sands said nothing, but he buried his face in the boy’s neck, and El heard him make a sound, a sound he had heard only once before, on a terrible day long ago in Puerto Vallarta.

And maybe he did say something after all, because Chiclet shook his head. “I won’t leave you again,” he vowed. “I promise!”

El ducked his head, giving the two figures on the porch some privacy. He wiped at his eyes a little.

When he deemed it was safe, he walked up onto the porch. As he came near, Chiclet raised a hand to the stubble on Sands’ cheek. “You should take a bath, Señor. You smell like my little brother.”

Sands chuckled, a little rustily. “Yeah?”

El smiled at the boy. “I am glad you came,” he said. “I was just going to get you.”

Chiclet’s eyes widened, like he was going to cry again. “I couldn’t stay away,” he said. “I missed it here.”

“We are glad to have you back,” El said. “Now you can play your guitar properly, like a true mariachi.”

The boy’s face lit up. “Yeah!” He looked at Sands. “Play with me,” he said. “Please?”

“In a little bit,” Sands said. He pushed himself out of the chair. “I think it’s time I go inside.” He started across the porch, but he paused when he reached the door. “I won’t be long,” he said.

Chiclet smiled at him. Some of the blind adoration was gone from his gaze now, never to return, but this was not necessarily a bad thing, El thought. In its place was a calmer, more understanding emotion. 

When Sands had gone inside, El looked at the boy. “Did he apologize to you?”

Chiclet nodded.

El raised an eyebrow. “He actually said the words?”

Abashed, the boy dropped his eyes. “No. But I know he meant it.”

“He did miss you,” El said.

“I know,” Chiclet said. He looked up at El, and El saw something there that took his breath away. Chiclet had stayed away, not because of his own misery, but because he had known it had to be done. He had finally realized that by coming back, no matter how Sands yelled at him or cursed at him, he was only giving the agent permission to keep doing it. Chiclet, with all his child’s wisdom, had understood that sometimes you had to be cruel to be kind.

El just shook his head in amazement.

****

Two hours later they were sitting on the porch, the remains of their lunch spread out around them. El and Chiclet were haltingly making their way through “Malagueña.” It was the first time in weeks that they had tried to play a song together, and they were not having much luck.

“Did you know,” El said, “I once played this song for El Presidente?”

Chiclet’s eyes widened. “Really? Did he like it?”

“Sí,” El said. “He requested that song specifically, when I asked if there was anything he wished to hear.”

“Wow,” Chiclet breathed. “Imagine being good enough to play for El Presidente!”

“Oh, he wasn’t good enough,” Sands drawled. “He was more interested in playing bodyguard to El Presidente, weren’t you, El?” He had showered and shaved and changed into clean clothes. He still looked tired, but there was spirit in his voice again. He was especially attentive to Chiclet, and at least twice El had seen him bite off the curses that sprang so naturally to his lips, when it came to dealing with the boy. El knew this forbearance wouldn’t last, but he was pleased to see it, nonetheless.

Chiclet lost some of his excitement upon realizing that El’s tale was related to the coup. He didn’t like talking about the coup. What would have been a fascinating story to any other boy would always be diminished for Chiclet by the knowledge that his best friend had been badly hurt on that day. “Did you ever see him again?”

“El Presidente?” El shook his head. “No. But before he said good-bye to my friends, he said we were all welcome in Mexico City, if we wished to visit him there.”

“Did you ever go?” 

“No,” El said. “There was no need.”

“Did your friends go?”

El looked down. “No,” he said.

“Oh, gosh, Chiclet, let’s not ask El about his friends,” Sands said. He spoke in that deceptively light voice he used when he was trying to hide something deeper. “Let’s add that to the list of things we should never talk about again, why don’t we?”

Chiclet nodded. “All right.”

Then he looked up, and pointed. “Who is that?”

El followed the direction of the boy’s gaze, and blinked in shock. The car pulling up the driveway was unfamiliar, but he knew the driver very well.

“Who’s there?” Sands demanded, sitting up alertly.

“A man,” Chiclet said.

The car stopped and the driver got out. His long curly hair was secured into a ponytail at the nape of his neck. He wore dusty clothes that had obviously seen better days, and sunglasses pushed to the top of his head.

He looked straight at El, and spoke the mariachi’s name.

Sands jumped. “Christ,” he swore. “Didn’t think I’d ever see him again.”

“Neither did I,” El said. He stood up slowly, handing his guitar over to Chiclet.

The man walked up the driveway, and onto the porch. At the top of the steps, he stopped. He looked from Sands to the boy and back to El.

El stared at his old friend. “Hello, Fideo,” he said.

*********

Chapter 6: Breaking

 

El stared at his old friend. “Hello, Fideo,” he said.

Fideo did not smell of drink, and that was the first surprising thing. The second surprise was the hand he held out. “Forgive me?”

El did not look away from the mariachi’s eyes. Fideo had always been the most open of the three of them, reminding him of Campa in that respect. Fideo had trouble hiding what he was feeling, especially when he had been drinking. There had never been any trouble looking at him and telling what he was thinking.

In Fideo’s eyes right now El saw remorse and fear.

He could understand the remorse, but the fear bothered him. Did Fideo think he would shoot him for daring to stand there and ask for forgiveness?

He glanced behind him. Chiclet had stood up and backed away so that he stood beside Sands’ chair. Sands’ right hand had crept toward the pistol on his hip.

That was the third surprise. That after the past two weeks, apparently all was forgiven between him and Sands. The first hint of a threat, and Sands was ready to back him up, as though the ugliness of Christmas Day had never happened. He wondered vaguely what would have happened if Fideo had showed up before Chiclet did, then decided that was a question best left unanswered.

“Why have you come here?” El asked.

Fideo did not lower his hand. “I was looking for work,” he said. “I was near here, and I wanted to see you.” He licked his lips, glanced at Sands and then looked back at El. “I wanted to apologize.”

“So,” El said, “you do not hold me responsible for Lorenzo’s death anymore?” He felt proud of himself, that he could say the words without flinching.

Fideo did flinch. He finally dropped his hand. “No,” he said quietly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“No,” El repeated, as quietly as Fideo had.

He stepped forward and embraced his old friend. He clapped Fideo on the back. “It is good to see you again.”

Fideo hugged him hard. “I thought you might shoot me,” he confessed.

El took a step back and shrugged. “I hoped I would not have to.”

Fideo gave him an alarmed look, then relaxed. “I see you haven’t changed,” he chuckled.

“And you?” El gestured to the car. “You are looking for work? What happened to all your money?”

“Ah, it’s a long story,” Fideo said. “Could I stay with you for a day or two, while I look in this area?”

El turned to look at Sands. The house belonged to the agent, after all; it was not his decision to make.

Chiclet had relaxed; he was smiling tentatively at Fideo, who returned the smile. Sands, on the other hand, had not moved. His fingertips still brushed his gun. “Still drinking?” he asked brightly.

Fideo flushed. “No,” he said tersely. “That is another long story.”

“Can’t be that long,” Sands said. “It’s only been four months since we saw you last.”

“You saw me...” Fideo repeated in bewilderment. He shook his head. He turned to El. “Can I stay or not?”

“It is not my house,” El said.

Fideo looked back at Sands, who was clearly delighted to be in a position of power over the mariachi. “What do you think, Chiclet?”

The boy’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Me?”

“What do you say? Should I let El’s mariachi buddy stay with us for a little while?”

Fideo’s mouth drew into a thin line. He did not like being mocked. He never had, which had made for some tense nights on occasion, when a drunk patron had heckled them. Lorenzo had always been able to shrug it off, but Fideo had taken such things to heart. More than once they had gotten in a fight because of it, and ended up owing their night’s take back to the bar’s owner to pay for broken chairs and shattered bottles.

Chiclet shrugged. “Sure,” he said. “He said he was sorry.”

Sands shook his head. “The magic words. All right, Fideo. You can stay here. But I want you gone in three days, whether you find work or not.”

Fideo nodded. He looked like he had just bitten into a very sour lemon. But he managed to say, “Thanks.”

El watched him walk back down to his car to retrieve his bag. “What do you think he really wants?”

“El, my dear friend, I have no fucking idea. But I’m sure we’ll find out soon enough.”

****

Fideo, as it turned out, wanted nothing. He woke early the next morning and drove off, intent on finding work. While he was gone, El searched the spare room, where the mariachi had spent the night. He felt bad for doing it, but not bad enough to stop.

“Well?” Sands asked.

“Nothing,” El said. “Clothes, shoes, toiletries. Nothing else.”

“No guns?”

“No.”

“Could still be in the car.”

“They could,” El agreed. He scowled. He had always liked Fideo. He didn’t want to mistrust his friend.

When Fideo returned that evening he was disgruntled and frustrated. “No one in this shitass town appreciates true talent.”

El sat back and waited for it.

“Actually they do,” Sands drawled. “So why would anyone in this shitass town need someone like you, when they’ve got _El_ Mariachi?”

And it was surprising, the warmth he felt at that moment toward Sands. Sometimes the man really was all right. He had missed this kind of banter, he realized, during the dark days after the disaster at Christmas. It was good to have things back to normal.

Or as normal as they came, around here.

Fideo flushed again. He did not smell like drink, but El suspected he had been hitting the bottle anyway. “Shut up,” he muttered.

El gave a mental groan, but for a wonder, Sands did not take the bait. He just sat there, smirking a little. His barb had hit home, and he knew it.

“What about Mazatlán?” El asked.

“Yeah, I figured I’d head there next,” Fideo said.

“Well, it was nice seeing you,” Sands said with fake cheer. He rose from the armchair and started off toward his room. “Lots of luck, and all that.”

Fideo waited until he was gone before asking, “How do you stand living with him?”

The question amused El. Even a week ago that would not have been the case. He shrugged. “You get used to it,” he said.

****

He dreams about Carolina that night. She smiles and waves up at him, just like she always does.

And like he always does, he sees the jeeps approaching, and he screams down to her. He runs from the roof, leaping down several stairs at a time in his haste to save her.

He runs out onto the street, and slides to a shocked halt.

The jeeps are frozen in the act of driving forward. Men are arrested in the middle of readying their weapons. Marquez is staring at Carolina, unmoving.

Carolina stands in the middle of the street, holding their daughter’s hand. She beckons him over.

Hardly daring to breathe, he runs out to meet her. “Carolina!”

“Shh.” She puts her finger over his lips. “There is not much time.”

“What do you mean, not much time?” He looks wildly around him, seeing the entire town frozen into tableau. Only he and Carolina are moving, only the two of them are _living_ , at this moment. “We have all the time in the world!”

“No.” She shakes her head. “This must end. Let us go. We do not need you anymore, _querido_. We are safe now.”

He kneels down and takes his daughter into his arms. “No,” he says desperately. “No.” He stands up, holding the girl in one arm, reaching out with the other for his wife. “Come with me. Now. We can make it!”

Carolina just gazes at him sadly. “Someone else needs you now.” She smiles. “You always were so stubborn. You will not see what is right in front of you.”

“No!” he cries. “Stay with me!” He takes a step toward her, and she takes a corresponding step back.

“ _Adios, mi querido_.” She blows him a kiss.

He is losing his grip on his daughter. Carolina is fading. “ _Que quieres en la vida?_ ” she asks. 

“No!” he screams. 

“Good-bye,” Carolina whispers.

He knows he will never dream of her again. Not like this, at least. He refuses to accept it. “Come back! No!”

But it is too late. He is suddenly staggering from the doorway again, out onto the sunlit afternoon. Carolina and his daughter are dead in the street, their blood soaking into the dust.

Marquez opens fire, and the bullets rip into him. He falls, and still he is screaming for her.

****

He woke with a cry stuck in his throat.

His hand trembled as he reached up to wipe his face. She was gone. His beautiful, passionate Carolina was gone. All he had left of her was her memory, and his dreams, and now she had decided to leave his dreams forever.

He sat up, thinking suddenly that now might be a good time for a drink.

The clock on the nightstand said four-thirty. Too early to get up, too late to go back to sleep. El pulled himself out of bed and headed for the door.

His hand had just closed over the doorknob when he heard voices. Low, coming from the living room.

He frowned, and pressed his ear to the door. It didn’t sound like the TV, but it was hard to know for sure. Sands would have known in an instant, but El had not his hearing. He could not tell if those voices were real or taped.

There was one way to find out. He reversed direction and found his gunbelts, right where he had left them by the bed. He pulled on a black T-shirt over his jeans, and picked up one of the guns.

Cautiously, he opened the door.

The house was dark, except for blue light flickering in the living room, and one lamp in the corner. El slumped a little in relief, and made his way toward the source of that light.

As he came near, he saw. Fideo was sitting on the couch, watching TV.

Four armed men were with him.

Instantly El raised his gun, and the sound of four weapons being cocked and aimed filled the room. “Drop it,” one of them said.

El snarled in silent frustration. He felt sick. He had allowed this to happen, the moment he had embraced Fideo as a brother.

“Drop it,” the man warned again.

“Do it,” Fideo said. He stood up, but kept a distance between himself and the cartel members. His eyes pleaded with El to listen to him. “They’re not here for you.”

El frowned. Almost every cartel in Mexico was howling for his blood. These men looked like cartel. How could they not want him?

And then he knew. He was not the only person in this house being hunted by the cartels.

Oh Fideo, how could you? Do I mean so little to you, after all? That you would take your revenge on me by hurting my friend?

“No,” he said. All four men tensed, a heartbeat away from shooting him.

He heard footsteps behind him, and he turned around, but he was a moment too slow. The gun butt came down on the top of his skull. The whole world exploded in raucous color and sound. El’s knees buckled, and he collapsed.

He felt the gun plucked from his hand. Someone gripped his upper arms and hauled him to his feet. He tried to stand on his own, but his head had become a shooting ground, and every movement he made sent a new explosion of pain through him.

“I’m sorry,” Fideo said. “But they are offering a large reward. How could I pass that up? Did you even know you were harboring a wanted criminal in your house?”

The words penetrated the daze of pain that surrounded him. Incredibly, Fideo was protecting him. He was not going to be handed over to the cartels. He wanted to laugh, but he was afraid that if he did, his skull would split in two.

With an effort he lifted his head. Blood ran down his forehead from a cut near his hairline. “Fuck you.”

The man holding him up gave him a hard shake. “Keep quiet.” He jerked his chin, and one of the men on the couch got up and came to his aid. They both took one of El’s arms and held him between them.

The other three men rose from the couch. “Be careful,” Fideo warned in a low voice. “He’s dangerous.”

“He’s blind,” one of the men scoffed.

“He’s still dangerous!” Fideo snapped.

The men shrugged, then went to go collect Sands.

Despite the pain in his head, El began to struggle against his captors. “Fideo, what are you doing?” he gasped. “This is madness.”

“Madness?” Fideo pointed an angry finger at him. “Madness is seeing your friend dead on the ground!” The finger now pointed toward the back of the house. “And it’s his fault! Lorenzo wouldn’t even have come here if it wasn’t for him.”

Furious noises emanated from the rear of the house. Gunshots rang out, and someone screamed. El tried again to pull free. The man who had hit him rapped him hard on the side of the head with his knuckles, and El nearly passed out from the pain. His stomach gave a great lurch, and for a terrible moment he thought he was going to vomit, then his insides settled down again, and the urge passed.

Shuffling footsteps approached. El tried to turn his head and see, but a wave of pain rolled over him and the world grayed out; he sagged in his captors’ grip.

When he could see again, the living room had become more crowded. A heavyset man had dragged Sands forward. Sands was bleeding from his nose and mouth, but the blows seemed to have had no effect on him. He was cursing and struggling ineffectually against the man holding him. 

And there were only two men, El saw with a flash of vicious satisfaction. Three had gone to fetch Sands, but only two had returned. One of them had Sands in a chokehold, his gun pressed to the agent’s temple. The other one was limping badly, trailing behind his partner. El saw the bloody footprints this man was leaving as he hobbled up the hall, and his spirits rose even more.

Sands had obviously been sleeping when the cartel members had entered his room – he was not wearing his sunglasses, but the black blindfold. The loose ends fluttered against his hair as he twisted and pulled at the arm about his neck. “If I ever get my hands on you,” he swore, “I’m going to rip your fucking balls off and stuff them back in the bloody hole! Let go of me!” The heavyset man yanked backward and Sands choked, his words abruptly cutting off.

The man on El’s right, the one who had struck him, said, “It’s him.” He nodded to his companion. “Let’s go.”

“What about him?” asked the other man holding El. “He’s seen us.”

“He won’t say anything,” said the first man. He gave El a shake, making the mariachi’s head loll on his neck. El groaned. “If he does, we’ll come back for him. And this time he will be the blind one.”

El did not doubt the sincerity of the threat. He went very still. “I will say nothing,” he promised. He wanted them to think he was not a danger to them, that he was just a nobody who had had the bad luck of sheltering a criminal in his house out of pity. Let them lower their guard, just a little. All he needed was one chance.

“You fuckers!” Sands shouted. He gave a furious pull at the arm about his neck and nearly got free, before the man yanked him backward again.

“Take him outside, Marco,” said the man who had hit El. “We must decide what to do with this one.” He gave El another shake.

Marco dragged the gun down the side of Sands’ face. “Hey, Leon. Are we going to kill him right away?”

“No,” said Leon, from El’s right. “That is not for us to do.”

“Good,” said Marco. He grinned. “He’s pretty. I want to keep him for a while.” He bumped his crotch against Sands’ backside.

All the color drained from Sands’ face. He went limp in his captor’s grasp, his arms dropping to his sides. El thought he was going to faint.

Marco and the man with the limp laughed. 

Leon did not find this so funny. “Cut that out,” he snapped. “Just take him outside and wait for us.”

“Sure thing,” Marco said, and ground his crotch against Sands again.

Sands looked like he was going to be sick. He was shaking all over, and terribly pale.

El took one look at him, and it was like a revelation. The last piece of the puzzle fell into place. This was it. The last mystery solved, the last secret revealed.

_Oh my friend, I am so sorry._

_Now I know why you will never trust me completely._

Quietly, but very clearly, in a small voice unlike his natural one, Sands said, “I don’t want to, Uncle Tommy.”

Marco laughed again. “What the fuck?”

Leon’s face twisted with revulsion. “Just get him out of here.”

El could not bear it. It was not enough that they had resurrected demons here tonight. Now they were laughing about it.

He gathered himself. “Sands!” he said sharply. “Are you still standing?”

The man on his left gave him a shake. “Shut up!” 

Leon was more succinct. He drove his pistol across El’s face, and El cried out as his nose broke and blood sprayed.

But his words had the desired effect. Sands’ head turned from side to side, and a little color came back into his face. “El?” He sounded very confused.

El slumped in defeat. He had not thought things could get worse, but he had just been proven wrong.

Fideo’s eyes went very wide. “Get him out of here!” he shouted.

Leon gave El a long, hard look. “El?” he asked. “You are El Mariachi?”

“He’s no one. It’s just a nickname! You see, his name is Miguel,” Fideo lied. “He isn’t involved in this, I told you already.”

On one level El could appreciate Fideo lying to protect him, but really, it hardly mattered. There was no point in hiding anymore. He raised his head with an effort. “There is no El Mariachi,” he said. “The man is a myth, a legend.”

“Bullshit!” snapped the man with the hurt foot. “You are him!”

It was the first time that man had spoken all night. Everyone turned to look at him. And for that split-second, they were not paying any attention to El.

It was the best chance he would have. Maybe the only chance he would have.

He concentrated on his left arm, and pulled with all his strength. And because the man holding him on that side was looking at his injured companion, El was able to get free.

The man shouted in alarm, of course, and immediately all attention swiveled back to El.

But he had been given his chance. He did not let it pass him by. Ignoring the man on his left, he spun toward Leon, his hand reaching for the second pistol at the man’s hip.

And from the corner of his eye, he saw Sands grab Marco’s arm and neatly flip the man over his head. The cartel man landed hard on his back, and Sands stooped down to pluck the pistol from his hand.

El’s hand closed over Leon’s second gun. It was tiny, the kind of gun that Lorenzo had always joked would belong to little old abuelas who would keep them in their huge handbags, ready to shoot the crazy muggers on the street. It was the size of the gun Sands had been carrying on the day of the coup, a gun that had long ago been lost during their hunt for Escalante’s cartel.

El started to pull it free of the holster. Behind him, the other man hit him hard in the kidneys, trying to make him let go. His body wanted to fold over with the pain, but he stubbornly refused to give in to it.

Shots rang out. Marco screamed in agony, and El glanced over in time to see the man’s hands waving pleadingly over the bloody holes in his crotch.

Leon’s gun cleared the holster. The moment it did, El pulled the trigger. Leon flew backward, a smoking hole in his belly.

The small gun nestled in the palm of his hand, a perfect fit. El whirled around. In quick succession, he shot the man with the limp, who had been preparing to shoot Sands; the man on his left; and Fideo.

Fideo fell to the floor, his hand still held out, begging for peace.

El checked the men he had shot. Two of them were dead. Leon was still alive, however, and he was trying to aim the gun he had been holding on El.

El shot him again. Then a third time, just to be sure.

He looked up. While he had been doing his own killing, Sands had emptied the clip of Marco’s gun, and was now dry-firing at the man’s corpse. He was breathing heavily, an expression of dazed shock on his face.

El looked at Fideo. The mariachi lay on his back, one hand clapped to the wound in his abdomen. He stared up at El through wide, pained eyes. “I didn’t want them to hurt you,” he whispered.

He was already dying. El walked over and stared down at him. Fideo had been his friend for seven years. Yet at this moment, he felt nothing.

“Don’t kill me,” Fideo begged. “I’m your friend.”

“You _were_ my friend,” El said, and pulled the trigger.

Fideo’s hand fell back. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes still open, forever pleading with the one who had taken his life.

El lowered the gun. He dragged his arm across his forehead, wiping away the blood that was running into his eyes. Thick blood dripped down the back of his throat from his broken nose. Pain hammered at his skull, and he staggered. “Sands.”

Sands did not reply. He was still standing over Marco, pulling the trigger of the empty gun.

He started forward. “Sands.”

Sands gave an exaggerated startle of surprise. He raised the gun and aimed it at El, holding it in both hands. “Stop! Don’t fucking move!” There was a jagged note to his voice El had never heard before.

El stopped dead. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“You’re sorry,” Sands sneered. “Fuck you!”

_Does he even know it’s me?_ “Sands, listen to me.”

“I said, don’t fucking move!” Sands shouted. He waved the gun threateningly.

_He doesn’t know it’s empty_ , El thought. _He thinks he has control of this situation. What will he do when he realizes he does not?_

El absolutely did not want to find out.

“I am not moving,” he said quietly. “But you must listen to me.”

“Yeah, yeah, you know what? I don’t fucking think so!” Sands began to back away, circling to his right. When his foot bumped the dead body of the man whose foot he had shot, he cursed loudly. “What the fuck? You stay away from me!” He gestured with the gun again. Not at El, but at a phantom in front of him.

El just stared at him in horror. Sands had snapped. Well and truly snapped. The demons within had been released, and his mind had broken under the onslaught. This was worse than Puerto Vallarta, worse even than the day El had come to collect him from this very house and Sands had thrown a fit in the backyard.

This was insanity, looking him right in the face.

“It’s only me,” El said, holding up his hands in a placatory gesture. He spoke his name. He tried to keep his voice steady. “El Mariachi. You know me.” He knew there was very little right now standing between Sands and complete madness. Sands had fought these battles before, but El was not so sure his friend would prove stronger this time. He thought this time, the battle had been lost before it had even begun.

“Fuck you,” Sands snarled. “Stay back!” He continued circling through the living room. In another moment he was going to run into the armchair, and El cringed in anticipation.

He began sidling forward, hoping to place himself in Sands’ path. He did not want the man running away now, not when he was like this. He had to keep Sands in the house, and calm him down. “Please. Listen to me.”

Sands pulled the trigger. El ducked, out of sheer reflex. He knew the gun was empty, but all the knowledge in the world could not make him stand still while another man shot at him.

The dry click sounded as loud as an explosion in the still room.

“Fuck!” Sands screamed in fury. He threw the gun at El, who dodged it easily. “Stay back! Don’t you fucking touch me!” His voice rose with sheer panic. 

“I won’t,” El whispered. Dodging the gun had been a very bad idea. His skull was filled with fire now, the flames eating at him from the inside out. He swayed on his feet and said thickly, “If that’s what you want.”

“If that’s what I want.” Sands laughed hysterically. “Yeah, right. Since when has it mattered what I want?” 

He started to run for the back of the house.

El swore under his breath. He dared not let Sands get away. Biting hard on his lip so he would not scream, he leaped at the agent. They went down together in a flurry of limbs.

Sands fought and kicked, a man possessed. El wrapped his arms about Sands from behind, preventing him from striking out. Sands screamed and thrashed about, but El held on grimly, his teeth clenched against the scream that wanted to burst from his throat. The fire in his head grew to unimaginable heights, burning away his consciousness.

“No!” Sands cried. “No!” His struggles grew weaker. “No.”

El relaxed his arms a little. “It’s only me,” he said.

Sands threw his head back in one last attempt to free himself. The top of his head connected with El’s nose. Brilliant pain exploded in El’s vision, and he felt himself falling backward, fading as he went.

The last thing he heard was Sands, pleading.

“Don’t.”

El faded out completely.

*********

Chapter 7: Surviving

 

Sands was drowning.

He couldn’t see. He couldn’t breathe. Voices sounded like ocean waves, indistinct roars as they washed over him. Hands pulled at him, dragging him down, holding him still, holding him down.

He could not get away.

_Let me go, please, let me go._

_Stay still. I’ll take care of this. Let me handle it._

Yes. When that voice spoke, he listened. He obeyed. The voice protected him, when no one else did. The voice was good.

It had spoken to him not long ago. He could remember it, vaguely. It was the last thing he remembered. _Let me handle it._

But why? Why? Handle what?

_No no no. Don’t, don’t think about it. Not now, not ever, not ever again._

All right. Yes. Not thinking about things was good.

The indistinct voices were still there, but they were starting to go up in pitch, slow down a little in speed. They were becoming real voices. He could hear words every now and then through the ocean haze of sound.

_They’re talking about you. They don’t like you._

_Why?_

_You know why. Because you’re worthless. That’s all right. I’m still here. I’m the only one who’s still here._

No, not true. There was someone else still there. Two someone elses. He could remember who they were, if only that voice in his head would shut up, just for a second, just please shut up, could he _think?_

Then one voice penetrated the haze, and all the other voices were silenced.

“Señor? Señor?” A hand touched his shoulder. Gave him a tentative shake.

No. No. He had to get away, get away now! The hand was gentle at this moment, but that was a lie. Soon it would turn harsh. Soon it would hold him down, no matter how much he cried and protested.

Consciousness, which had hovered close, so close – for how long? – suddenly snapped into place. He rolled up to a sitting position, flailing out with his arm, knocking the hand and its owner away. “Don’t touch me!”

“Señor?”

He knew that voice. It broke through some of the haze surrounding him. Sands relaxed a little. “Chiclet?”

“Sí.” The boy sounded relieved. He also sounded down low, as if he had been knocked to the floor. Sands winced. Shit.

He frowned, trying to remember. Why he was on the floor. Why Chiclet was here. Why the TV was on, but the volume was turned down low.

Why everything smelled like blood and gunpowder.

“Are you all right?” Chiclet asked. He sounded very anxious.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he muttered. It was coming back to him. Real memories, not those old fractured memories, the ones he had tried so hard to forget.

The cartel. Fideo’s betrayal.

There had been men. And one of them had said—

He shook his head. The memory was there, but it was distorted. It was all hazy. The last clear thing he remembered was hearing the voice in his head saying, _Let me handle it._

“Are they all dead?” he asked.

“Sí,” Chiclet said quietly.

“Where’s El?” He suddenly realized he had no idea what had happened to the mariachi.

“Behind you,” Chiclet said. “He is still unconscious.” His voice caught. “There’s a lot of blood.”

Sands frowned. Blood? Had El been shot?

Christ, had _he_ shot El? He suddenly had a vague memory of waving a gun at El, shouting something. But he didn’t know if that was right or not. He had threatened El plenty of times in the past, but today? Had he threatened El today? He didn’t know. And he could not trust his memories. They betrayed him, more often than not. It was best to stick to hard evidence.

“Lead me to him,” he said. He held out his hand.

Chiclet took his hand and he stood up. The boy’s hand was clammy and gross, but it was a lifeline, an anchor to reality that Sands clung to fiercely. It reminded him where he was, and who he was. He was not a scared kid in Indiana anymore. He was a scared, blind ex-CIA agent in Mexico. 

His legs were unsteady beneath him. His face hurt where the cartel men had struck him, but he barely registered the pain. Right now there were more important things to focus on. “Where is he?” 

“Here.” Chiclet stopped walking.

He knelt down cautiously. He reached out with one hand and encountered an arm. El’s arm.

“Is he shot?”

“No. They hit him.”

“Where?”

“His face.”

“That’s where the blood is?”

“Sí.”

“Are his eyes different?”

“Que?”

“Pick up his eyelids. Is one bigger than the other?”

After a pause, “No.”

“Good. All right. This is what I want you to do. Go into El’s room. Clear me a path. Shove all the furniture aside if you have to. Turn down the bed. Then go get me a blanket, a bowl of water, and the first-aid kit from the bathroom cabinet. Can you do all that?”

“Sí,” Chiclet said in a very small voice.

“Hey, are you going to faint on me or something? You all right?”

Don’t faint, Chiclet. Don’t bail on me. I need you now, kid. Christ, you have no idea how much I need you.

“I’m all right,” the kid said. He sounded slightly stronger now.

“Good. Now go do what I told you. And _walk_ , don’t run. I don’t want you tripping and falling or something. Then I’d have to fix you up, too.”

“I won’t,” Chiclet said. He started walking away. The list Sands had given him would keep him occupied for some time. That was good. That was what Sands wanted.

He was left alone with El.

****

He felt cold all over. Cold in Mexico. Who would have thought?

_Don’t think!_ snapped the voice in his head. _That only gets you into trouble._

This was true. Too much time alone with his thoughts was never good. It was one reason he hated to stand still. He needed to keep moving, so his thoughts couldn’t catch up to him.

That was why things had been so fucked up for him lately. He had been spending too much time just sitting around this house, with nothing to do but brood. When really he knew better. He needed to keep occupied, or his mind turned on itself. Old things floated to the surface, things rotten and black, things best kept buried.

Like Uncle Tommy. Good ol’ Uncle Tommy, whose death had been quite sudden. The police said it looked like he had come home and apparently surprised a burglar in his house. He had been shot over a dozen times, two guns’ worth of ammunition unloaded into him. _Isn’t it awful?_ everyone had said. _It’s such a shame. So sudden. Why, Sheldon, you were just out there visiting him for your graduation. Who knew that was the last time any of us would ever see him alive?_

Who knew, indeed.

Who knew?

Why, El Mariachi. He knew.

“Oh shit,” Sands said in a trembling little voice.

El knew. His darkest secret, the thing he rarely even allowed himself to think about. 

El fucking knew.

Because now that his mind was his own again, he remembered. The thing the cartel man had said. The thing that had unleashed his madness.

El would have seen his reaction. And as stupid as he could sometimes be, El was not entirely lacking in intelligence. There was no way El could not know.

Such a thing could not be suffered to pass. El could not be allowed to know. Sands could not bear such a thought.

He began feeling along the floor, trying to find the gun he knew had to be nearby. It was unfortunate, but he was going to have to kill El. He could not allow the man to live with the knowledge he now had.

How could he face El again, now that the man knew? How could he go on, pretending like nothing had happened?

“Sorry,” he breathed, searching faster. “Really I am.”

He found El’s arm again, and this time he followed it down to the mariachi’s hand. There, as he had hoped, he found a gun. It was small, but it would still do the trick.

He took the gun from El’s hand. He scooted forward on his knees so he could press the muzzle to the soft flesh under El’s jaw.

Sticky, drying blood coated his fingers. El’s blood.

A hairbreadth away from pulling the trigger, he paused.

_There’s a lot of blood_ , Chiclet had said.

He lowered the gun to the floor. Cautiously, ready to snatch his hand back at the slightest hint that El was coming awake, he touched the mariachi’s face.

Chiclet had not lied. There was indeed a lot of blood. It coated El’s mouth, chin, nose and forehead. Only his cheeks seemed free of it.

_His eyes, too. Don’t forget his eyes_ , said the voice in his head. _Some people still have their eyes, you know._

“Shut up,” he muttered.

El’s features remained slack; he was not going to be waking up any time soon. Emboldened, driven by a compulsion he could not explain, Sands explored the mariachi’s face.

He had only seen El twice, and once had been through the screen of the confessional booth, so that time hardly counted. That left only their first meeting, in the cantina, when he had asked El to kill Marquez. As a consequence, in his memory the mariachi was always frowning. He knew that couldn’t always be true, but the image persisted. Whenever he imagined El, there was a frown on the man’s face.

He felt his way along El’s face. The firm jaw, the full lips, the wide nose, the plane of his cheek, the deep-set eyes. El was not bad looking, even he had to admit that. It was something of a surprise that there no eligible señoritas falling all over themselves vying for his attention.

He let his fingers trail downward. Skating over the pulse in the mariachi’s throat, following the curve of El’s collarbone. Down to El’s left hand.

The bracer he remembered seeing there was gone. He wondered when that had happened. Curious, he traced the scar on El’s palm. He knew the story behind it, how El had been mistaken for a killer, how a woman had died because of him.

He pressed his own scarred hand to El’s. Palm to palm. Scar to scar.

He thought suddenly of something he had seen in a movie once. Boys in a treehouse, slicing open their palms with a piece of broken glass, holding hands tightly so their blood mingled. _Now we’re blood brothers, linked for life._

Or some shit like that.

He had no brothers, no sisters. He had never had a friend, before El.

One evening, a few days before dying, Ramirez had asked him about El. “What would you have done with yourself, if he had not come for you when he did?”

He had shrugged, trying to act like he had not lain awake many nights, pondering that very same question. “Well, I don’t know, Jorge, but I imagine it would have involved a lot of guns and dead bodies, until I got myself killed.”

Ramirez had scoffed. “You sound like you’re sorry it didn’t go down that way.”

“There are advantages to being dead,” he had said, fully aware that he was talking to a dying man.

“Such as?”

“When you’re dead you don’t have to worry anymore about being blind.”

Ramirez had been silent for a while, then he had said, “It is good he came for you. I used to be not so sure, but not anymore.”

“Yeah? What changed your mind?”

“You are good for each other.”

He had opened his mouth to make some snappy retort – probably something real witty, like, “Bullshit” – but Ramirez had doubled over, coughing and groaning, and so he had let the comment pass.

But he remembered it now.

He let El’s arm drop back. It hit the floor bonelessly. Sands frowned. It wasn’t good that El had been unconscious for this long. It was very possible that he had a concussion.

“Come on, El. Wake up.” He shook the mariachi’s shoulder sharply. All CIA agents were trained in basic first-aid, and even a few steps beyond. Sands knew better than to shake El, but at the moment he could have cared less for proper procedure. “Stop farting around. Get up.” He needed to know how badly hurt El was. Chiclet had said El’s eyes weren’t dilated, so that was a good sign, but there was no knowing for sure until El regained consciousness.

“Come on, El! Get your lazy ass up!” He slapped the mariachi.

Nothing.

Shit. Sands sat back on his heels. He didn’t like this. El should have woken by now. That continued unconsciousness worried him. And he didn’t like being worried.

_Why the hell should you care?_ asked the voice. _Let him sleep. He can’t bother us that way._

Fair enough. But he _did_ care. He could not deny that. He had realized that in Durango last year, while waiting for Boston to come back and torture him some more. He cared about El and what happened to him.

The problem was, he didn’t know what else he wanted. One minute he was filled with scorn for El, Chiclet, their whole damn village, and all of Mexico. The next minute he felt like he belonged, like he had finally found a home.

He couldn’t make up his mind. And it was that indecision, that inability to just pick one emotion and stick with it, that was making him so miserable. Ever since they had come back to Culiacan, through the long horrible summer when he had fought his madness, and on through the autumn when he had tried so hard to ignore El’s steadily growing depression, he had wavered back and forth between extremes. One day he felt one thing, the next day he felt another. Nothing lasted, nothing felt permanent.

Take Christmas Eve, for example. He had truly enjoyed the chance to drive the car. He had been deeply touched that El would do that for him. For the first time in untold years, he had felt genuinely happy.

But later that night, lying awake in bed, it had occurred to him that El’s laughter in the car had been directed at him. El thought it was hilarious to let the blind man drive a car. El had been mocking him, pitying him, letting him think he was in control again. El was a fucking asshole who deserved to die.

The hell of it was, even as he had lain there thinking those things, a part of him had known they weren’t true.

He wanted to trust El completely. But he couldn’t bring himself to take that final step. He wanted El to trust him. But he laughed at the mere idea of being trustworthy. He wanted friends. But he feared rejection.

He wanted a normal life. But he knew he would never be normal. Knowing that made him strangely sad. And the sadness pissed him off – what the hell was he thinking, wanting normalcy?

But he couldn’t stop wanting it.

All in all it was terribly confusing, and Sands just didn’t know what to do any more. He supposed it was just as well that he had lost the rest of his sanity tonight – he hadn’t known how much longer things could go on as they were.

He was about to try slapping El awake again when the kid came back. “Señor?”

Chiclet. Thank all the gods that ever were for Chiclet. _Make me sane again, Chiclet! Please! I know you won’t believe it, but I was like you once._

He looked up and gave the kid a tight smile. “Did you get what I asked for?”

“Sí.” Chiclet started walking toward him.

Immediately Sands held his hand up. “Shh! Stop!”

Chiclet froze.

Sands cocked his head, listening hard. Sure enough. There it was. A car was coming up the driveway.

“Fuck,” he growled. More of Leon and Marco’s buddies, no doubt. Come to see why the others hadn’t shown up yet with the crazy, blind American spy.

“Fuck you,” he whispered. He would die before going with them, before letting even one of them lay so much as a finger on him.

“Go in the kitchen,” he commanded. “Now. Hide. _Do not_ come out, no matter what you hear. Savvy?”

Chiclet swallowed hard. “Sí.” He ran.

Sands grinned. “Let’s get it on.”

****

Staying down low, he crossed behind the piano and went to the left front window. It was open already, so he just crouched down to the left of the glass. After making sure Chiclet had truly gone into hiding, he had taken guns off two of the dead men – he couldn’t be sure, but he thought one of them was Fideo.

He eased the barrel of one of the pistols over the windowsill. Not enough to poke out too far. Just enough to allow him to do what he needed to do.

The car had stopped. One door slammed, then another, then two at once. Men got out. Sands counted four sets of footsteps.

He listened as they came together in front of the car. Apparently this faction of the cartel decided things via committee meetings. They spoke in low voices; he could not make out the words.

He started to get bored. What the fuck were they taking about? 

Eventually they split up, and Sands began paying attention again. Two men started for the front of the house. The other two walked around the porch, obviously intending to go in through the back door.

Sands shot the two men heading for the back of the house as they crossed in front of the window. They went down screaming. They did not get up again.

The other two men started to run. Sands shot one, and then the sounds of the fourth man disappeared. He listened hard, but he heard nothing.

“Shit.” The man had frozen, gone perfectly still. He knew he was facing a blind man, and that so long as he made no noise, he was safe.

It was a stand-off. Sands did not know where the man was, and the man did not dare shoot at him for fear of revealing his location. 

Slowly, keeping down, he backed away from the window. He crept over to where El was lying.

The man outside was clearly a lot smarter than his buddies. Which meant the only way he would dare enter the house was if he thought he could approach Sands without Sands knowing it. So sooner or later he was going to gather his courage. He would make his way toward the house. When no shots were fired, he would grow bolder yet, and come inside.

That was good. That was all according to plan. Sands had never yet met a man he couldn’t figure out within ten seconds. This guy was no different.

He knelt beside El and felt along the floor until he found the tiny pistol. He closed El’s left hand over it, first wrapping one of the mariachi’s fingers about the trigger. “Okay, El. Now would be a really good time to wake up.”

Nothing.

He sighed. “Fine. I just hope you know what I’m sacrificing for you. You got the last of my sanity today. Now here’s the last of my dignity. Enjoy it, fuckmook.”

He took El’s hand in both of his and raised it to his cheek. He started rocking back and forth, keening aloud, the way he had seen some native woman doing once in a documentary on some shithole third-world country.

_Hey asshole, you hear that? The crazy blind man is inside, completely off his rocker. Now come and get him!_

The man outside, however, took his sweet time. Long minutes passed before Sands heard the creak of the screen door opening, and by then he wasn’t sure he could sustain his charade for much longer. His throat hurt, and he felt incredibly stupid. And he was uncomfortable being so close to El, letting the man touch his face like this for so long; his skin crawled, and he wanted nothing more than to let El’s hand drop back to the floor.

But at the same time, it felt oddly comforting, that touch. Like if he just turned his head a fraction, he could nestle his cheek against El’s palm, and everything would be all right again.

The cartel man crept through the living room. Sands barely heard each footstep over the din of his own voice. The man was good. Very good. He suspected that anyone else would not have heard him at all.

The man stopped just behind him.

Sands counted to five, then let himself fall forward.

He had timed it perfectly. When the gun struck the back of his head, it was not the disabling strike it had been intended as, but only a glancing blow. It still hit hard, and it still hurt terribly, but he was still alive.

He continued to slump, letting the force of the blow drive him forward, as though he had been knocked out. As he fell, he let El’s hand drag down, off his face, to rest atop his shoulder.

Where he now had a clear shot.

The whole time he had knelt there, he had held El’s finger over the trigger of the small gun. Now he wrapped his finger around El’s and together they pulled the trigger.

The bullet flew over his shoulder. Right into the cartel man’s thigh. The man screamed in shock and pain, staggering backward.

Off balance now, Sands checked his forward fall with an effort. Yet he still held onto El’s hand, and the gun.

He heard the pistol cock behind him. “You’re dead, fucker.” The barrel of the gun was pressed to the back of his head.

Sands went very still. He was still holding El’s hand – with the gun – but directly in front of him now. He could not shoot, not without killing himself. This was it, then. He had played the game, and he had lost. It was not the first time he had lost, but it would be the last time.

And then the hand he was holding came to life. A quiver ran through the body on the floor in front of him. The fingers that had been limply closed about the small gun suddenly clutched it tight. The gun was shifted to the left, just a little.

When the trigger was pulled this time, it was only El’s finger doing the work.

The cartel man collapsed.

The resulting silence rang in Sands’ ears. In the corner, the TV droned on, a low, strangely comforting murmur of sound.

Sands knelt there for a moment. He became aware that he was rapidly losing consciousness. “Is it over?” he murmured.

Yes. It’s all over. You’re safe again. You can go to sleep now.

“He is dead,” El said.

“Good,” Sands said, and fainted.

*********

Chapter 8: Touching

 

El sat up slowly. His head felt like someone cruel had stuck it in a vise, and was steadily tightening the clamps. He slumped forward over his sprawled legs, fought a brief battle with his stomach, and vomited.

Not a good idea. The convulsions that gripped him while his stomach emptied itself made the pain in his head reach new heights. He moaned aloud. He dared not move and stir the hornet’s nest in his skull, so he just stayed where he was, leaning over his legs, eyes squeezed shut, a pile of puke inches from his nose.

This, however, was hardly a good position to be stuck in. Breathing through his mouth, teeth gritted, El eased himself upright. The world did a slow tilt around him, then settled down.

When he was certain he would not faint, El opened his eyes.

It was still dark outside, but the day was steadily lightening; gray light crept into the living room. The TV was still on, the volume down low.

Six men lay dead. There was blood everyone. Guns were scattered across the carpet; one was even under the window.

El looked around blearily.

Fideo lay in the middle of the floor. One hand rested on his stomach. The other was outflung. His fingers curled up toward the ceiling.

Tears pricked at El’s eyes. Of all the friends who had died for him, this one hurt the worst. The others had died because they had believed in him. Fideo was dead because he had lost his faith.

For a while he just sat there, too overwhelmed to move.

Some time later, a sound in the back of the house caught his attention. He lifted his head, and immediately wished he hadn’t, as a bolt of pain crossed his skull.

The sound came again. El glanced at Sands, who was still passed out, and tottered to his feet. He had to try twice before he could do this without falling, but at last he made it.

Miraculously, the small gun was still in his hand. Gripping it tightly, he made his way down the hall. The sound had come from the kitchen.

He licked his lips. He would call out, order the person to step into the hall. Maybe he could just take the man’s weapon and send him running. Maybe there would not have to be any more killing.

The swinging door to the kitchen began to open. El cocked the pistol.

A gun poked out. “Drop it!” El shouted.

The man in the kitchen fired the gun. The bullet spanged harmlessly into the wall, missing El by several feet. 

He dropped to the floor, firing at the owner of the gun. But there were only two bullets left in the tiny pistol in his hand. All too soon he was met with just a dry click when he pulled the trigger.

Fortunately, the kitchen door had swung closed again, and the man inside did not return fire. El forced himself to his feet. He took a few steps forward, then had to stop. He braced one arm against the wall and leaned over so he could vomit one more time.

The pain in his head churned thickly. He groaned and staggered on.

He pushed open the door to the kitchen, expecting to see a body on the floor. 

But there was nothing. El frowned.

He had barely stepped inside the room when the pantry door was flung open. Two small hands emerged, holding a pistol. 

El leaped back, smashing his shoulder into the doorframe, cursing himself. He was going to die here in his own kitchen, because he had been too stupid to go back into the living room and get another gun from the many just laying around.

The gun fired. A bullet buried itself in the wall a foot from his face. Involuntarily, El let out a cry.

The person in the pantry ran out into the kitchen, and stopped.

“Oh! Señor, it’s you!”

Chiclet stood there, Sands’ gun in his hands. He was pale and wild-eyed, and the hands holding the gun were shaking. But despite his fear, he had stood his ground, and he had tried to defend his friends.

At that moment, even though he was wracked with pain and ready to collapse, El loved him.

He held out his hand. “Give me that.”

Chiclet handed over the gun. “It belongs to Señor Sands. I took it from his room.”

“Does he know you have it?”

“No.”

“Then we will not tell him,” El said. “And if you wish to learn how to shoot, I will teach you.”

Chiclet nodded. He had calmed down considerably, but he was still too pale. “Are you all right?”

El thought about it. “Sí,” he said.

The boy did not smile back. “Señor Sands?”

El just looked at him. He had no idea how to answer that question. He had regained consciousness in time to see the stranger standing over Sands with a gun. He had felt the gun in his hand, and without thinking, he had moved it so he had a clear shot. There had been no hesitation, no second thoughts. He had simply killed the man.

Sands had asked if it was over, but there had been a strange note to his voice. El had gotten the distinct impression that Sands had not been talking to him.

He had answered anyway. A split-second later, Sands had collapsed. As far as El knew, he was still lying out there in the living room, unless the gunshots had roused him.

And what would happen when he woke? If he even woke at all? El had heard of cases where people forced to confront horrible episodes from their past simply could not cope with it. They retreated into themselves so far they became little more than vegetables. He thought Sands was too strong to do such a thing, but he had to admit the chance existed.

After today, all bets were off.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“I heard…” Chiclet swallowed hard.

El frowned. He would have to find out what had happened while he had been unconscious. There was no telling what Chiclet had seen and heard, and how it would affect him. Now, however, was not the time.

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get him.” He turned around to leave the kitchen, and a huge wall of pain slammed into him. He made a noise, some kind of croaking scream, and then everything went black. 

****

When he woke, he was in his own bed. His head was pounding horribly. His face hurt. The back of his throat burned. His stomach ached.

Something cool and wet touched his forehead. It caressed his skin, wiping away the dried blood there. El contemplated opening his eyes for about half a millisecond, then decided against it.

“Will he be all right?” That was Chiclet. He sounded far away, however, which puzzled El. If Chiclet was not the one tending to him, that meant…

“Yeah, he’ll live.” Sands. Sands was the one brushing the damp washcloth over his face so gently. 

Amazed, El lay perfectly still. The pain in his head meant he couldn’t have moved much even if he had wanted to, but he wouldn’t have moved even if he had been healthy. He wanted to make this moment last as long as possible, this moment when Sands had been kind to him.

And he even knew why it was happening. Why Sands was able to touch him like this right now, when other times the agent could barely bring himself to come near El. He thought – wrongly -- that El was unconscious. He could stop at any moment he wanted. As far as he knew, right now he had the control. That made all the difference.

That, and Chiclet’s presence.

“I think he has a concussion,” Sands said. “We need to keep an eye on him. So here’s what I want you to do. Go on home and get your things. You’re going to stay here for a few days.”

“Really?” Chiclet sounded bewildered. “What about school?”

“Fuck that. You don’t need to go to school. They don’t teach you kids anything useful these days anyway.”

“Why do you need me?” 

The washcloth left El’s forehead. Water splashed. “I can’t take care of him by myself,” Sands said. There was a long pause. Then, “I need your help.”

“I’ll help you,” Chiclet said loyally.

“I know you will,” Sands said. His voice was muffled; he sounded exhausted. He was putting on a good show of normalcy for the boy’s sake, but El wondered how long he would be able to keep it up.

The washcloth touched El’s face again. He lay still. He knew Sands was right, that he did need Chiclet’s help, but there was another reason the agent wanted the boy around. As long as Chiclet remained in the house, there would be no chance to talk, no time to discuss what had happened this morning. Chiclet’s presence was an excuse for ignorance.

El’s head hurt. He had killed a friend today, the last link to his past. He had no strength to refute lies, no matter how wrong they were.

He fell asleep again.

****

The rest of that day was very blurry for El. It was the time right after the shoot-out at Ramon Escalante’s hacienda all over again. Things bled into each other, and the normally sharp lines and angles that defined objects were fuzzy and trembly. The world had a slow sway to it now, and it made him sick to look at anything for too long. So he spent most of the time with his eyes closed, hanging grimly onto consciousness when he could, floating in dark oblivion the rest of the time.

The second day was a little better. He felt more aware, like he had more say in what happened to him. The world had stopped swaying, and things were not so fuzzy. He was able to keep his eyes open for longer periods of time.

Whenever he woke, Chiclet was always there, ready with a smile. He talked softly, out of deference for El’s aching head, but he always asked what the mariachi needed. Soup, water, the bathroom, anything El needed, Chiclet was happy to get for him.

He saw Sands only once, and that was toward evening. The agent was leaning against the doorframe, arms folded. His head was bowed. He did not say anything.

On the third morning, El woke and felt almost healthy again. He drew in a tentative breath through his nose, and it did not hurt as much as he had feared it would. The pain in his head was gone when he was still, and returned as only a mild ache when he moved around.

When Chiclet brought him lunch, he was sitting up in bed. The boy grinned. “You’re up!”

“I’m up,” El repeated, a bit hoarsely.

“We were worried,” Chiclet said.

We? I believe you were, Chiclet, but I don’t know about Sands. I think even with a thousand guesses I couldn’t tell you what that man is thinking right now.

“How are you?” he asked. He knew the boy had seen atrocities before, but three days ago he had seen more dead men, and his friends hurt and bleeding. He had even tried to kill one of those friends. Knowing him, he probably felt guilty about it. That was probably part of the reason why he had been so attentive these past few days.

“I’m okay,” Chiclet said. He looked down.

“If you want to talk to me,” El said, “that is all right.”

“No, thanks,” Chiclet said vaguely. He handed El the lunch tray. There was a bowl of soup, a grilled cheese sandwich, and a glass of milk. A child’s lunch, put together by a child. 

El tried to smile. “All right,” he said.

“How are you?” asked Chiclet, clearly relieved to be changing the subject.

“I am fine,” he said. “In fact, you can go home today, if you like.”

“Are you sure?” The boy’s brow furrowed. “I can stay, if you need me.”

“No,” El said, “I will be fine. Thank you for staying. But you need to get back to school.”

Chiclet nodded. “All right.” He looked sorry to be going. “Señor Sands is outside.” He gestured vaguely toward the back of the house. “I’ll go tell him.”

El sat up, suddenly very alert. He had not dared hope for such an opportunity as this, but now that it was here, he could not let it pass. “No,” he said. He tried to smile disarmingly. “I would prefer you didn’t tell him, actually. He and I need to talk.”

Chiclet grew serious. “You will help him?”

“I hope so,” El said, and meant every word.

****

Chiclet went out the front door. El walked him out, then sat on one of the chairs on the porch. The day was overcast but warm, and there was little wind. It felt good to be outside again.

At the far end of the porch, a roll of carpet was propped against the front of the house. This was the living room carpet, and El wondered who had done the work of pulling it up. He was not curious enough to ask, however. He had no interest in learning what had happened during the past two days, where the bodies were, who had done the messy clean-up. He had a vague memory of seeing a man in a police uniform, and hearing someone asking him questions, then Sands’ voice had driven them away, and he had fallen unconscious again. It was really all he remembered, and that was just fine with him. 

Chiclet rode his bike down the driveway. He did not ring the bell as he went, but he did raise a hand and wave good-bye. El waved back, then settled himself in the chair.

A few hours passed. El let his head tip back, and dozed in the sun.

He woke to the sound of his name being called. “El?” It was Sands, from within the house. “El? Chiclet?”

El remained where he was.

“El? Fuck.” To his surprise, Sands actually sounded worried. He wondered what the agent was thinking, if he thought maybe El had wandered off in a delirium. 

Footsteps entered the living room, then turned around and went further into the house. Several long minutes passed, then the footsteps returned. They approached the screen door. Sands hesitated, then pushed open the door.

El said nothing. He just watched as Sands slowly crossed the porch and sat in the chair he favored, on the other side of the front door from El.

A long silence descended. Then El said, “I sent Chiclet home.”

“I thought so,” Sands said evenly. If he was pissed, he did not show it.

The silence drew out again. This time El said nothing. He could not be the first to speak. His job now was to listen, to whatever Sands chose to say.

For a long time it seemed Sands would say nothing at all. The afternoon shadows lengthened, and the sky began to darken as evening approached. El let his eyes drift closed. He was tired, and his head ached again. He had not eaten the lunch Chiclet had provided, and occasionally his stomach reminded him unhappily of that fact. But he remained right where he was, determined to outlast his friend.

Finally Sands said, “I know you know.”

“Yes,” El said. He opened his eyes.

“Well.” Sands smirked. “Thank you for not acting like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“I would not do that to you.”

“You’re too kind.” Sands gave him one of those thin-lipped smiles.

“We don’t have to do this now,” he said, wanting to give his friend a chance to back out now, before it was too late. They had to talk, sooner or later, but maybe now was still too soon. Maybe now was not the best time.

“Do what?”

“Talk about it.”

“We are _never_ going to talk about it, do you hear me?” Sands said in a tightly controlled voice. “Because I have nothing to say. Not today, not ever.”

El sighed. This response was exactly what he had expected. But sitting here all afternoon, he had had plenty of time to run through imaginary conversations in his head. So he knew what to say next.

“You do not wish to say anything. I understand. But may I say something, just one thing?”

“Christ,” Sands swore. “All right. But it better not be about how sorry you are.”

“No, it is not that,” El said. He _did_ want to say how sorry he was, but he did not dare. Not today. Apologies could come later. If there was a later. “I want to say that it is your choice to talk to me about it, or not. And I will respect whatever choice you make. But before you make that choice, just remember how you felt after Puerto Vallarta, to get things out into the open.”

There was a long silence. Sands looked like he couldn’t decide whether to spit or cry. “Jesus Christ, El.” He uttered a mirthless chuckle. “You really know how to fuck with a guy’s head, don’t you? All right. You can ask me one question. Just one. But I promise you I’ll answer it truthfully. How’s that?”

“That is fair,” El said. It was not enough, not enough by far, but it was the best he would get tonight, and he knew it. And in truth, it was more than he had hoped for.

“Just one, though,” Sands said. “So you better make it count.”

His mind raced. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, so many things he wanted to know. But he only had this one chance, one chance to get it right. If he asked the right question tonight, maybe tomorrow he could ask another question. And another one the day after that. Eventually he would stumble upon the right question, the one that would really make Sands feel, the one that would get him talking, and release all that old pain and madness out into the open, instead of keeping it locked up inside where it was just poisoning him.

He took a deep breath. “How old were you?”

“Good question,” Sands said brightly. “I was seven.”

El closed his eyes in horror. _A child_ , he thought sickly. _He was just a child!_ “And that is when you went insane.”

“Ah, a statement, not another question,” Sands drawled. “You’re learning. However, I’m going to have to respectfully decline to answer that one on the grounds that I might incriminate myself. Or selves, if you prefer.”

“That is why you will not let yourself trust me.” 

El opened his eyes and looked at Sands. The agent had been smirking slightly, but now the expression faded. He suddenly looked very cold. “Yeah, sorry about that, don’t mean to let you down or anything.” His voice was heavy with sarcasm. “Fuck you.”

“And Chiclet?”

“Oh, well, better luck with him. He’s just a kid and all. He probably doesn’t even know how to use his dick yet.”

“I would never hurt you,” El said, grimacing as he said it.

“Said the man who popped me in the jaw on Christmas Day,” Sands said. “Yeah, like I’m going to fall for that one, El.”

He winced. “I meant, that way,” he said lamely.

Comprehension dawned on Sands’ face. “Look, just--” He broke off, and shook his head sharply. “Christ. I can’t believe I’m sitting here talking to you about this. I should have killed you when I had the chance.”

This made El sit up. “You what?”

“Yeah, it was almost _Adios mariachi_ back there. It was real touch and go for a little while.” Sands laughed, and El winced again; that laugh sounded too close to hysteria for his comfort. “Touch and go,” he muttered. “You have no idea.”

Touch and go. Touch. El drew in a deep breath. “I wanted to thank you for taking care of me that day. I know it couldn’t have been easy for you.”

“What?” That ragged note was gone from Sands’ voice. Now he just sounded irritated. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“To touch me,” El said. “I know it wasn’t easy for you.”

Sands bared his teeth. “You think you know everything now, don’t you?” He stood up, pushing back on the arms of the chair as he did, so the chair scooted back and banged into the front wall of the house.

“Prove me wrong,” El snapped, rising to his feet too, feeling his heart start to beat faster. Oh it was perfect, it was more perfect than he could have hoped for.

“Prove you wrong? You want proof?” Sands stalked across the porch, dark elegant grace in motion. El’s heart thudded against his ribcage. “I’ll give you proof.”

His hands shot forward and seized El’s face. He held on tight, refusing to let the mariachi pull back.

El had no intention of struggling.

Sands kissed him. It was a violent kiss, completely lacking in romance. Their noses bumped together, and El cried out with the hurt.

The instant his lips parted, Sands’ tongue was there, sweeping the inside of his mouth, tasting him.

His pain became insignificant. There was only the kiss, and the way it made him feel. It had been so long since he had been kissed, since he had felt warm. Gratitude and loneliness surged through him, and he found himself returning the kiss, bruising Sands’ mouth as his was being bruised, returning the punishment with equal passion.

Sands tore his mouth free. “You like that, huh?” He was breathing hard. He did not let go of El’s face.

“What do you think?” El growled, and kissed him again.

This time Sands did not let him. He jerked his head to the side. He bit at El’s jaw. “Do you still think I’m afraid of you?”

“No,” El panted.

“Then touch me.”

“What?”

“Touch me.”

He pulled back in surprise, although not enough to escape the hold Sands had on his face. Was Sands saying what he thought he was saying?

Abruptly it occurred to him that this was not right. This was not true passion or desire. This was a frightened man determined to prove that he was not frightened.

And one lonely man desperate for touch. That’s me.

But if he said no, there would never be another opportunity. If he rejected Sands now, he would be forever shutting the door on any chance the man had at healing. He had no choice, really. He had to go along with it.

He found, to his mild surprise, that he really didn’t mind.

“How?” he whispered.

Sands chuckled. He was trailing kisses down El’s neck, making the mariachi feel breathless inside. “How? Touch me like you touch yourself.”

“I don’t know--”

The hands on either side of his face were unforgiving, holding him so tight he could not move. “Touch me like you touch yourself at night, when you’re lying awake in bed, thinking of--”

He could not bear to hear her name spoken aloud. Using his whole body, he moved down and to the side, capturing Sands’ mouth, silencing him with a fierce, violent kiss. He finally raised one hand, letting it snake down between their bodies until he found the undeniable evidence of Sands’ desire.

Beneath his lips, Sands smiled. “Yeah,” he said. “Just like that.”

His hands left El’s face. They moved down, palms dragging over the mariachi’s throat, down his chest, his belly, and still lower. El caught his breath.

And there was no more talk.

There was only touch.

*********

Chapter 9: Denying

 

Waking was strange. And a little frightening.

Someone was in bed with him.

The last time that had happened, it had been the fair Agent “I’m his daughter” Ajedrez lying next to him. The last time that had happened, he had been short a few bullet holes, and in possession of his eyes.

The next alarming realization was that this was not his bed. This was not his room.

And then the truth tumbled in. This was El’s room. This was El’s bed. And that was El lying there next to him, sound asleep.

_Oh shit._

Sands bit back a groan. He hadn’t. They hadn’t.

But his memory, never his best friend, tossed out random selections, reminding him in no uncertain terms that oh yes, they surely had.

It was much harder this time to stifle the groan.

He was lying on his right side, the sunglasses digging into his brow and temple. He had his back to El, which was not good, not good at all because it would be harder to defend himself, should El try anything. Fortunately the mariachi was deeply asleep, breathing with that thin nasal whistling Sands hated.

Slowly, wincing at every movement, Sands rolled over onto his back.

El did not stir.

Okay. He had to stay calm. No freaking out. Not until he was well away from El.

So then. Last night. Was it such a bad thing? There had never been a moment when he had not been firmly in control, and that, ladies and gentlemen, friends and neighbors, was what really mattered. And true, he had gotten some pleasure out of it, which was all he had ever sought from sex. Fucking was nice, but it was not the be-all end-all of existence, as so many people made it out to be. He had found he was always willing to take sex when it came his way, but when it didn’t, oh well. No big loss.

So here was an interesting question. Would sex be coming his way more often now? What, pray tell, would El, the most uptight mariachi in all the world, have to say about this?

It occurred to Sands that now might be a good time to figure out where the closest gun was. A very good time.

He knew beyond a doubt that last night was the first time El had ever been with a man. The mariachi had been rather touchingly bewildered and shy, unsure of himself or what to do. Although he was no expert himself, Sands had reveled in the chance to take charge for once, to be the leader to El’s follower. Yeah, it had been good. He couldn’t deny that.

The question was, what would El do today? If the mariachi felt his manly pride had been offended, might he not feel compelled to do something about it?

_He wouldn’t._

_Yeah? You want to bet on that one? I think we better get out of here before he wakes up and decides those holes in your face look pretty interesting._

Shuddering, Sands sat up, pushing the sheet down with his feet. As much as he hated that voice, he had to admit it had a point.

And then he suddenly realized that last night he had not heard the voice. Not once, the whole time he and El had been, well, doing what they had been doing.

Which was very interesting.

He moved as slowly as he could, not wanting to disturb El. There was no question of staying here. He had to get out. Now. He had to be far away from here when El woke. If he was lucky, he could make it to his own room, get showered and changed, and when El woke up, the mariachi might think it had been nothing but a dream.

Then a new thought struck him. What if Chiclet got here early again, and found them like this?

Sands leaped out of the bed.

Immediately he wanted to cringe. It had to be early morning, judging by the air temperature and the way it felt on his very naked skin.

_Oh shit. Oh shit._

The instant his feet hit the floor, he started forward. He had to get out of this room, and fast. He took two steps, picking up speed as he went, and then his foot struck a tangle of quilt that had puddled on the floor. He flailed for balance, arms pinwheeling madly, and went down with a curse and a thump.

The bedsprings creaked. El sat up. “What…Sands?”

“Oh shit,” Sands said.

****

“Sands?” El sounded sleepy, and a bit confused, but not pissed.

Sands remained where he was, sprawled sitting on the floor, miserably aware of his nakedness, yet stubbornly refusing to cover up. Let El stare. Sure. They might as well get on with the ugliness. No point now in trying to pretend it had never happened.

The bedsprings creaked again, then stilled. El made a slight sound.

_Hurts, doesn’t it? I warned you last night, but you said you didn’t care, you wanted it. Bet you change your tune today, buddy._

He had not, after all, been terribly gentle last night. He remembered the little gasps of mingled pain and pleasure El had made, the way the mariachi’s hips had arched off the bed. 

After that single sound, El said nothing. It occurred to him that the mariachi probably had not the slightest idea what to say. Waking up with another naked man was undoubtedly pretty low on the list of things El had ever imagined doing.

The image of that wide-eyed bafflement on El’s normally dour face made Sands smirk. He relaxed a little, letting his knees spread, giving El a good look -- if the mariachi was feeling brave enough to stare this morning. “So,” he drawled, “shouldn’t you be asking how I like my eggs?”

“What?” The word was jerked from El’s throat.

“You mean you’re not going to make me breakfast?” Sands asked, trying hard not to laugh. Was it possible he had been worried about El’s reaction? Scared, even? In hindsight, it seemed ridiculous to think he had felt such things. Why, he was fine. This was nothing. Nothing at all.

El made an annoyed grunt. “Get it yourself,” he snapped. The covers were flung back, and the bedsprings squeaked as El got to his feet. He padded out of the room, barefoot and bare-assed.

Sands stayed on the floor for a little, chuckling to himself, feeling just fine. After a little bit he rose to his feet. He wanted his clothes back, but he would be damned if he got on all fours and searched for them. He could demand them back from El later. With his right hand held in front of him, testing the air for unseen obstacles, he made his way out of El’s room.

Water was running in the bathroom on the right of the hall. Despite the covering sound, Sands was certain he could hear the mariachi muttering to himself.

Laughing, Sands walked down the hall and turned into his own room. He shut the door behind him.

The moment the door latched, he stopped laughing. He took a single step forward, and the world was enveloped in a gray blur of sound. He sank gracelessly to the floor.

He was cold. Christ, when it had gotten so cold in here? Shaking, he crawled across the carpet to the bed. He reached up with one hand and pawed at the quilt, tugging on it, pulling it off the bed and wrapping it around his shoulders. 

_What were you thinking?_ screeched the voice. _Jesus Christ, do you know what he could have done to you? What the hell am I even doing here? If I had known you liked it all those times, I sure as hell wouldn’t have hung around. What the fuck is the matter with you?_

“No,” he whispered. He leaned against the side of the bed. He could not stop shaking. “No, I didn’t like it. I hated it.”

_Yeah, right. You can’t lie to me, you know._

“I didn’t,” he said again, louder this time. He ducked his head, wrapping his arms about the back of his neck, hiding. Hiding, so no one would see him, no one would know he was there.

The voice just laughed. It hated him, it always had, even while it had protected him. The voice hated him for the same reason he hated himself, for being weak, for even needing protection in the first place. The voice urged him to take control, to find the balance and keep it, to do whatever it took to make sure he was always, always on top and in control.

_You liked it_. That was what Uncle Tommy had said, just before dying. Just before the bullets had slammed into his body, he had stopped snivelling and whining, and found some backbone. _You liked it, you little shit, don’t tell me you didn’t._

He had not said anything. He had let the guns be his only answer. The roar of the guns, and the balletic way Uncle Tommy’s body had swayed from side to side with each hit before finally collapsing in the front hall. No, he had never liked it.

But last night had been different. Last night he had initiated the touching, and he had been in charge. Last night they had laughed when their chins bumped, and he had smiled when El had made a low groan of satisfaction. Last night had been about pleasure, not pain.

_It doesn’t matter!_ shrieked the voice. _You can’t trust him! Anyone can be nice at first!_

True. Very true. Hell, Ajedrez had liked to snuggle afterward, and she had sometimes played with his hair. He had told her to stop it, that he didn’t want to be treated like a baby, but deep inside, he had liked it, and he had never really protested too much.

And look how she had turned out.

_Oh wait. Can’t look. No eyes. Sorry, my mistake._

Sands bit down on a whimper. No. No. Last night the voice had been quiet. Last night had been his decision, his choice. Last night while the mariachi’s hands had explored his body, he had felt not trapped or panicked, but whole. He had felt good.

_Doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter_ , chanted the voice.

“Stop it,” he moaned. “Stop it, just stop it, can’t let you me alone for once? Can’t you let me have this?”

The voice laughed.

“Stop,” he begged. “Stop, just stop, please.”

A loud knock sounded on the door. A voice called his name.

His head jerked up. His heart hammered with panic. Uncle Tommy had found him! He was going to do it to him again, and he couldn’t get away.

“No,” he whispered. “No.” He lowered his head onto his knees.

The knock came again. The door was opened.

Sobbing with shame and fear, he stayed where he was. There was nowhere to hide, nowhere to run.

And the voice, his only friend and protector was gone.

Someone knelt beside him. He cringed back, falling against the bed. He gripped the quilt as tightly as he could, trying to cover himself.

After a long time, he felt himself being pulled forward. Arms wrapped about him. He didn’t fight. Why bother? Fighting only made it hurt worse, and last longer. If he was quiet and still, sometimes it wasn’t so bad.

The arms held him close. They rocked him back and forth. A voice began to sing. It was a deep voice, a kind voice. No one had ever sung to him before.

Deep within, in the lone portion of his mind that still retained a semblance of lucidity, he recognized that voice. He knew that voice. It belonged to strong hands, hands that had touched him so gently last night, as if they had feared he would break under anything harder.

And they were gentle now as they held him while he cried, not for himself, but for the innocent boy he had once been, and all the things that boy had lost, never to find again.

****

The dream is not nice. Most of his dreams aren’t.

It is early September. The first day of school, in fact. He is eight years old now, having observed his birthday over the summer. Observed, not celebrated. There was no cake and ice cream, no gifts. He invited himself to a party, but then forgot to show up.

He walks to school more eagerly today than he ever has. Uncle Tommy went back to California two days ago, and he will be in school all day, spared the terror and boredom of the house.

Life is good.

He sees the other kids clustered together on the playground, and his step quickens. He doesn’t like most of those kids, and they don’t like him, but at the moment they seem like angels sent from heaven to rescue him. With other kids he’ll be safe.

One of them points. “Hey, it’s Shellll-don,” the kid sing-songs in a sickly sweet voice. His name is Marcus Allen, and he likes to wear football jerseys. The jersey today is red and white and has a big 3 on it.

His steps falter, and slow.

The kids on the playground turn to look. They see him. They laugh.

He stops walking. Suddenly he hates them all. These kids have not spent the summer hiding in their own house, running from grabbing hands. They have not had to listen to a tearful mother say that there were just some things you did not talk about, not ever. They are not pale and nervous. They have spent the summer playing in backyards with friends, making crafts at camp, getting suntans and skinned knees.

Sullenly, he walks onto the playground. The bell rings, and the school day starts. A thin kid with glasses walks up to him and says hi. This kid is the only one who has ever showed any friendliness to him.

“Fuck off,” he snarls, and shoves two girls aside in order to get into the classroom ahead of everyone else.

Their teacher this year is named Mrs. Hawthorne. When she reads the roll, she looks up at each boy and girl and smiles. When she reaches his name, she stumbles a bit, surprised by his name. There is pity in her smile when she looks at him, the pity of a teacher for the student she knows will be singled out by every bully in her class.

He glares at her and decides he hates her.

The first thing Mrs. Hawthorne does is ask them to write a page. What I Did On My Summer Vacation. She passes out paper and pencils to those kids who are so stupid they forgot they were coming back to school and left their supplies at home. Everyone else takes out their notebooks and begins laboriously scratching words down.

He stares at the blank paper. What I Did On My Summer Vacation.

_Fuck them. They don’t know anything_ , observes the voice in his head.

He sits up a little. It still seems a bit amazing that no one else can hear that voice. Only him. It is his secret. His protector. The voice doesn’t have a name, but he thinks it is a little like Jim Phelps, on Mission: Impossible. A secret agent, a spy. So clever and smart no one else knows it exists.

He becomes aware that he is almost crying. What can he write about? The day he hid in the closet and Uncle Tommy slapped him for trying to pull a smart one? The day Mrs. Johnson quit, and gave him such a pitying look that he threw his fork at her? They have to read their essays out loud in front of the whole class. How can he tell them about the way the water in the bathtub turned pink from his own blood?

_Let me handle it_ , says the voice.

But this is school. This is no place to doze off. The voice can take over at home, but not here. He resists. “No.”

_You’ll fuck it all up, and get it wrong. Let me do it._

“No!” he shouts. He snaps his brand-new pencil in half.

At her desk, Mrs. Hawthorne looks up, startled. “Sheldon, is something wrong?”

He throws the halves of the pencil at her. “Fuck you! You can’t make me do this!”

The class draws in a single, astonished breath. Mrs. Hawthorne’s eyes grow very wide. Two spots of color blossom on her pale cheeks.

She points to the door. “To the principal’s office. Now.”

He snatches up his sheet of paper and wads it into a ball. Before he does, he sees that at some point he has written, “I hate you,” at least ten times.

He has no memory of doing this.

He leaves the classroom, and slams the door behind him. He walks down the hall, a free man. He thinks he will become a secret agent like Jim Phelps, like the voice in his head. Then he will be the spy, and no one will ever know he is there.

He is grinning as he slips out the front door of the school. He likes the idea of being invisible. He likes it very much.

****

The sound of voices brought him back to consciousness.

“What happened?”

Immediately he realized two things. The first was that he was still on the floor, cradled in El’s arms.

The second was that beneath the quilt he was still horribly naked.

“A bad dream,” El said. “Why aren’t you in school?”

“I didn’t want to go,” Chiclet said.

Did El know he was awake? The mariachi was sitting against the bed, leaning on it for support. His head was on El’s shoulder. He must have moved when he came awake; surely El knew he was not still asleep.

“You should go,” El said.

El knew. He heard it in the mariachi’s voice. El knew, and was protecting his secret. The thought filled him with both weak gratitude, and a dim anger. Neither emotion was very strong, however. He simply didn’t have the strength for it right now.

“I want to stay,” Chiclet said stubbornly.

“All right,” El said. “Turn down the bed.”

“Sí.” The bedclothes rustled.

El’s arms tightened about him and he tensed. But El just picked him up and laid him on the bed, quilt and all.

Immediately, although he had meant to just lie there like the sleeping person he was supposed to be, he curled on his side.

“Oh, he’s awake!” Chiclet said.

“No.” Something rustled, then the bed sagged to his right as El sat down. “Did you lock the front door behind you?”

“What? Oh!” Chiclet sounded startled. “I’ll go check.” His light footsteps hurried out of the room.

Sands sensed a hand approaching, and he tensed. The hand brushed the side of his face, then reached up and removed his sunglasses.

He had to bite his lip to stay silent.

Something touched his face. The soft black cloth he used to bind his eyes at night. He dutifully turned his head so El could position it just right. The mariachi knotted it at the back of his head. “Too tight?”

He gave a short shake of his head.

Chiclet came trotting back. “It’s locked,” he said breathlessly.

“Good,” El said, his voice low.

The boy got the hint. “Is he asleep?”

“Yes,” El said. The bed sank a little more, then lifted as El stood up. “We will let him sleep. He needs to rest.”

“Will he be all right?” Chiclet asked, his voice tense with anxiety.

El did not answer this right away. At last he said, “I don’t know.”

They walked toward the door. Chiclet obviously wanted to linger, and there came the sounds of El hurrying him out into the hall. The door was quietly closed.

Sands lay very still. 

After a long time, he fell asleep.

*********

Chapter 10: Talking

 

That night, after Chiclet had gone home, El went into Sands’ room and shut the door.  
Sands was lying right where El had left him. He did not look like he had moved. But El knew he must have gotten up at some point because now Sands was fully dressed, and the quilt was shoved to one side, rumpled and half hanging off the bed. 

"Do you want anything to eat?" he asked.

Sands said nothing. 

El frowned. He hated this. He could deal with almost any of Sands’ moods except this, this depression. "The boy has gone home," he said. Taking a chance, he sat on the bed. Sands stiffened, but did not draw away.

El clasped his hands in his lap. "You said you almost killed me, after Fideo’s betrayal. Why?"

Sands said nothing.

"We have to talk," he said. "You know this."

Yes, and about many things. Last night being one. He had never imagined he might one day spend the night with another man in his bed, that he might feel the things he had felt. He was a little scared by his own reactions, and concerned, what they meant about him. He wanted to talk about what had happened, and see if maybe, just maybe, Sands was feeling the same way.

All day long these thoughts had plagued him, making his fingers stumble on the guitar strings, and keeping him cold and distant with Chiclet. He had recognized what he was doing, but he had not been able to stop, even when he tried reminding himself that the boy too had been traumatized two days ago. Yet even Chiclet’s pain had not been able to penetrate the daze that had encircled his brain since last night. Nothing had.

Until now. The sight of Sands lying so small and still on the bed enabled him to put those traitorous thoughts aside. They would talk about things later, yes -- he would insist on that -- but for now he had to think of his friend.

"Fuck you," Sands said hoarsely. "Go away. Leave me alone."

"No," El said, knowing that with just that single word, the battle lines had been drawn. "I thought maybe you needed time, but I think now that it was a mistake to leave you alone all day. You need to escape your thoughts, my friend, not wallow in them."

Sands said nothing, but El could tell he was pissed by the set of his jaw.

And he watched carefully, making sure Sands’ hand had not crept any closer to the pillow, and the gun beneath it.

"This is not how I want to do this," he said. "It is a nice night out. Come sit outside with me."

"Leave me alone," Sands repeated, in a very cold voice.

El took note of the warning, but he still did not move. "Please," he said.

Sands moved. His hand dove under the pillow and came out with the gun. He fired, and El rolled off the bed to land on the floor.

He looked up and saw Sands leaning over the edge of the bed, leading with the gun, intent on gunning him down. He scrabbled at the floor and shoved himself into the narrow space under the bed. A bullet splintered the floor where his head had been only moments before. He pushed harder with his feet, sliding further under the bed. A second bullet clipped the heel of his boot, digging a groove through the sole but not harming him. 

"I’m going to fucking kill you," Sands said. He sounded very matter-of-fact. The lack of emotion in his voice frightened El. He had wanted to provoke the agent into some kind of reaction, but this was more than he had bargained for. 

The moment the mattress lifted, as Sands got off the bed, El pushed himself out the other side. He got quickly to his feet. "Don’t," he said, holding up a hand.

Sands turned around and fired, his aim as good as it had always been. Knowing this, El had ducked the instant the words had left his mouth, and so the bullet meant for his skull instead shattered the window behind him.

"Don’t!" El shouted. "Just listen to me!" He drew his own gun, the one he had very deliberately worn when he had walked in here, and cocked it.

Sands went still at the sound. He bared his teeth. "Going to shoot me, El?"

"Only if I have to," El said.

"Oh, I think you’ll have to," Sands said. "In fact, why don’t I just save you the bullet? Remember that?" he said snidely, referring to the night they had sat in El’s house in Villa de Cos, getting drunk and maudlin. "We don’t want you wasting any of your precious bullets on me." He pressed the muzzle of the gun to his temple.

"No," El said in a strengthless voice.

"No? Why not? Give me one good reason why not," Sands snapped.

He floundered for something to say. He could think of nothing that Sands would believe.   
"Come on, El!" Sands shouted.

He genuinely meant it, El realized with horror. He was asking El to give him a reason to stay alive, and if El could not provide one, he was going to pull the trigger.

_Santo Dios, what do I say?_

All right. Start with the obvious. "Think how Chiclet will feel."

Sands shook his head. The muzzle of the gun made a deep indentation in the black silk where it crossed his temple. "Try harder."

"Then think how I would feel," El said.

"Oh please," Sands scoffed. "You’ll probably do a dance of joy and spit on my grave. Try again."

"I would not," El said.

"I said, _try again_." There was no mistaking the tremor in Sands’ voice this time.

What could he say? Dear God, what could he say that this broken man in front of him would believe?

"Because I want you," he managed.

"What?" Sands demanded.

"I did before," El stammered, feeling heat creep up his cheeks. He felt almost ashamed of himself, remembering how he had begged last night, how he had given himself up to pure sensation. He had let Sands do things to him last night that he had never dreamed of. "And then…last night…" He swallowed hard. "I want you."

"No good, El," Sands said with false cheer. "I’m damaged goods, remember? Try again." He pressed the gun so hard against his temple that his head cocked to one side. "This is your last chance."

_He’s really going to do it_ , El thought. _There is nothing I can say that will make him change his mind. My silence is only his excuse for doing it. He can blame it on me._

And suddenly he knew. Thoughts of blame had led him to the right answer.

He lifted his chin. "If you do this now, they will win. Your uncle, Barillo, Ajedrez, Belinda Harrison. All of them. They win. Is that what you want?"

Sands went very still. For perhaps the billionth time since meeting him, El wished desperately that he could look into the man’s eyes and see what he was feeling. He had often wondered just how much of their past would have happened differently, if Sands had not lost his eyes. How much sooner might they have been able to become friends, if there had been the ability to exchange sincere looks, to judge the truth with just a glance, to see deep into one another’s eyes?

"Think," El said, keeping his voice firm, pleased that it did not shake. "This is what they wanted. Each of them, in their own way, tried to make you believe you were nothing. But that is a lie. If it were true, you would not be here today."

Something of what he was saying had to be getting through, because Sands’ breathing changed. He became more agitated. The gun at his temple did not lower, however, and that was not good.

"There is a little boy down in that village who loves you," El said.

Sands winced.

"A filthy drug cartel is in ruins because of you.

"Jorge Ramirez was able to find peace during his last few months of life because of you."

El put his gun away. He took a tentative step forward, although the bed still separated them. "And I have found someone for my heart again."

Sands laughed. It was a harsh, ugly sound.

El began to ease his way around the bed. He made no particular effort to silence his footsteps, but he still moved quietly – that was just his way. "We’ll leave here," he said. "Together. We’ll go somewhere, where nobody knows us. We can start over."

"It’s too late," Sands whispered. He was trembling. The gun had begun to sag slightly, but it was still aimed at his head.

"No," El said. "It’s never too late. You taught me that."

Sands’ face twisted in anguish. "Don’t! Don’t fucking do this to me!" He took a shambling step backward. Now the gun pointed at El.

El slowed his step, but he kept coming. He felt fairly certain Sands would not shoot him, but he still had to be careful.

"I never," Sands whispered miserably. He shook his head back and forth. "I never."

"I know," El said. He was close enough now that he could have reached out and taken the gun from Sands’ grip.

"I never wanted it!" Sands cried. "Oh god, I was just a kid! Oh god…" His knees buckled.

El caught him. The gun clattered to the floor.

**** 

Later, when the worst of Sands’ sobs had subsided, he pushed weakly at El’s chest. "Let go of me."

They were sitting on the floor, El leaning against the bed, Sands in his arms. It was just like this morning – God, had it really only been twelve hours since that had happened? -- but with one subtle difference. Now he felt like he was holding a flesh-and-blood man. This morning it had been like holding a doll.

"Is that what you want?" he asked. "Or what you think you should want?"

Sands tensed, then slumped. "Fuck," he muttered. He let his head rest on El’s shoulder once more.

He wondered what he should say now. This was new to him, too. "Do you--"

Sands stirred. "Would you just…not say anything? All right?"

El nodded. He closed his eyes. It had been a long time since he had held someone in his arms, but he supposed it had been even longer since Sands had been held. Setting this morning aside, it was entirely possible that this was the first time it had ever happened.  
The thought made him want to weep.

So they just sat there.

****

Later, Sands said, "I meant what I said yesterday. I’m not going to tell you about it. You don’t get to hear the gory details."

"I don’t want to hear them," El said, with complete truthfulness.

"Then that works out well," Sands said.

It was not much, but it was more spirit than he had shown all day. El smiled.

****

He said, "And I meant what I said. I still want you."

"You shouldn’t."

He frowned. "I do not think of you that way, what you said."

"Damaged goods? It’s all right to say it, El. I know what I am."

"No." He tightened his embrace. "You are not."

Sands sighed. "You can’t make me sane again just by wishing for it hard enough, El. Trust me on that one. And you can’t make me normal."

El smiled. "I would not want to."

Sands heard that smile in his voice, and stiffened. "Don’t fucking mock me."

"I am not," El returned. "I am merely thinking that if you were normal, life would be very boring around here."

Sands was silent for a bit, then he chuckled. The laugh was unwilling, El could hear that much, but it was still a laugh.

_It’s over_ , he thought. Oh, there would be more storms in the future, most certainly, but for now, they had survived. The worst was over. 

****

Some time later, he gathered his courage and said, "Last night was nice."

Sands was surprised; he could tell by the way the man’s body twitched. "Hmm."

He thought about the pleasures he had known with Carolina. What he had felt last night had been completely different, and so very unexpected. He had never imagined he would be in such a position. It was a little frightening, a little embarrassing, and a lot intriguing. "I did not know I could feel that way. Next time--"

"Awfully sure of yourself, aren’t you?" Sands smirked. "Who says there’s going to be a next time?"

"Don’t you want there to be?" he asked carefully, holding his breath. It might be too soon yet to ask such a thing. There was a good chance he had just ruined everything.

But he hoped Sands would say yes. His friend needed to have something good to hold onto, something instead of the painful memories of his past.

To his immense relief, Sands did not explode. He just sighed. "Christ, El, I’m just trying to get through today, all right?" 

"All right."

Silence fell. Sands shifted position slightly, but not enough to make El think he wanted out. "Okay, so next time what?"

El cleared his throat. He felt surprisingly shy, like a kid who had just experienced sex for the first time. Prickly heat suffused his face and neck. "I thought...next time, I want to make you feel that way."

Sands sat bolt upright, all contentment vanished. "No! No way." He pushed at El’s arms. "Let go of me."

Immediately El dropped his arms. His heart sank. "What?"

Sands scrambled away. He remained on the floor, but he gave every impression of being ready to run at a moment’s notice. He shook his head. "No. If you want me to fuck you again, that’s fine with me. But that’s it. That’s all. You do _not_ get to return the favor."

El was silent for a very long moment, thinking about what had just been said. He felt incredibly stupid for not having thought of this earlier. He sighed. "All right. I can understand that. I had not thought...that is, I didn’t realize..."

"Forget it," Sands said tersely. "You’ve got lots of problems, El, but no one can call you a rapist."

El scowled. "Thanks a lot."

"Oh my Christ," Sands sighed. "You know what I mean."

He was offended, but he told himself sternly that he had no right to be hurt right now. Right now he had to forget everything he was feeling, his own confusion, his worry for Chiclet, his guilt and grief over killing Fideo -- all of it.

Right now he had to be there for Sands.

"All right," he said. He felt absurdly lonely again, now that his arms were empty. "Are you coming back?"

Sands shook his head. "Oh, I don’t think that would be a very good idea," he drawled. "If I did that, I’d just be trading one mythic protector for another. Then I would have two sets of voices in my head, one with an accent. So no, I think I’ll be staying right where I am, thanks."

El winced. It amazed him, to hear how casually Sands spoke of his madness.

And he remembered, the night before Belinda Harrison had showed up here, Sands shouting at him in the kitchen. _Wrong again, fuckmook. I embrace my insanity._

There were too many memories in this house. Starting with the evening he had first arrived here and Sands had tried to kill him; ending with today. Too many nightmares.  
"I think we should leave here," he said.

"Oh yes. The big ‘fresh start’ plan." Sands shook his head. "Grow up, El. Life is not a do over. Do they say that down here in Mexico? Kids are playing and one of them fucks up and cries out, ‘Do over!’ so he gets another chance. It doesn’t work that way in real life, and you are old enough to know it."

"I can’t stay here," El said. "I killed my friend in the living room."

Sands’ expression turned cold. "Then leave," he said. "No one is stopping you."

_You could_ , El thought. _If you asked me to stay._

To his surprise, Sands held up a hand, as if to forestall any protest. "Look, let’s not argue, all right? I don’t have the energy for it. Not tonight." He gave El a thin smile. "We can schedule a fight for tomorrow though, if you want."

"No," El said softly.

"Good. Then let’s just kiss and make up." Sands scooted toward El. "I need to thank you, after all."

"Thank me for what?" El asked. He shrank back against the side of the bed as Sands moved into his personal space.

"I don’t know," Sands said. "Saving my life? Saving yours? Does it matter?" He kissed El.

El groaned as he returned the kiss, but he was struck again by a sense of wrongness, even more than he had last night. This was not right.

He tore his lips free. "I don’t want your gratitude," he said. "Not like this." He groaned again as Sands’ hand reached between his legs.

"It’s not gratitude," Sands said. He kissed El again.

With an effort, he stood up, leaving Sands kneeling on the floor at his feet. "No," he said. "Not like this."

Sands’ mouth tightened into a thin line. "I see," he said bitterly.

Baffled, El shook his head. "I said I want you and I meant it. But I don’t want it to happen again like this."

"Like what?" Sands snapped. He rose to his feet. "You think I’m paying you back for being kind to me?"

"Aren’t you?" El retorted.

Sands punched him. El’s head whipped to the side. He staggered, but did not fall.

"Fuck you," Sands snarled.

El stared at him, caught between warring instincts. He wanted to stalk out of the room, his head held high. But at the same time he wanted to seize Sands and kiss him until the agent was panting for breath, his body shuddering with desire, the way he had last night.  
In the end the choice was easy. He had denied himself for too long. He would not be denied tonight. He stalked forward, grabbed Sands by the upper arms and kissed him.

There was no gentleness in that kiss. It was full of helpless frustration, and violent longing. He took what he wanted from Sands’ mouth, and it was not enough, still he needed more. It would have gone on until he collapsed for lack of air, but then the tang of blood filled his mouth, salt and copper, and he jerked his head back, startled.

Sands’ lip was bleeding.

Horrorstruck, El reeled backward. "My God."

Sands laughed. He licked the blood off his lip. "Don’t worry, El. There’s nothing you can do to hurt me."

He spoke lightly enough, but El knew it for a lie. Sands was trembling.

He felt sick inside. Had he not vowed that he would never hurt this man?

"I’m so sorry," he breathed. He stepped forward and took Sands into his arms. He kissed the hurt he made on Sands’ lip. "I’m sorry." He pressed light kisses over Sands’ face, his cheek, the thin scar there from the day of the drug house, and up higher. Gently, he kissed the black silk where it lay over the hollow where Sands’ right eye had been.

Sands flinched back, and immediately El tensed. "Did that hurt?"

"N-no," Sands said faintly. "You just surprised me."

"Good," El said. "I want there to be no more hurts between us."

"You better mean that," Sands said, and his voice shook a little.

"I do," El said.

Sands kissed him. There was passion in that kiss, but no violence. He took charge in that kiss, and El was happy to let him.

He allowed Sands to turn him, and push him toward the bed. The backs of his legs hit the mattress, and he lay down. His heart was pounding. He wanted this. Oh God, how he wanted this.

Questions of right and wrong suddenly ceased to matter.

******

Chapter 11: Playing

 

El woke to bright sunlight, and a hand.

He was lying on his side, facing the broken window and the morning sun. Sands was on his back, his face turned away. His left arm was out, his hand a mere inch from El’s nose.

El yawned. He felt sleepy, but it was a good feeling. Content sleepy. 

He studied the hand in front of him. The blue ink tattoo of the numeral 3. The long, elegant fingers, fingers that knew his body now more intimately than anyone, save one person.

He poked his neck forward and kissed one of those fingers.

The hand twitched.

El grinned, and kissed the same finger.

The hand moved again, and suddenly El’s smile faded. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to wake Sands. Maybe he should let the man sleep. Who knew what this morning would bring?

For himself, it brought shame. Guilt. Last night had been good, almost as good as the first time, but it should never have happened at all. He should have walked out of this room. Instead he had given in to his selfish desires, despite knowing how wrong it was.

He closed his eyes. As though all the intervening years had not happened, he suddenly heard himself talking to Carolina about Bucho, his own brother. _Honey, he is a bad man._

_That’s me_ , he thought. _Now I am the bad man. He came to me last night for all the wrong reasons, and I knew it, and still I accepted the offer. What have I done?_

Well, it was too late now. He would have to face the consequences of what he had done, whatever they might be. One thing was for certain, though. It would not happen again. Unless it was for the right reasons, it would not happen at all.

He became aware that Sands’ breathing had changed. He opened his eyes and turned his head. "Are you awake?" he whispered.

Sands nodded. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

"How are you?" El dared to ask. He held his breath while he waited for the answer. Last night had been good. He had aimed for a blend of passion and gentleness, and although he was inexperienced at this sort of thing, he thought he had succeeded. Certainly the breathless way Sands had spoken his name – his real name – had filled him with confidence.

Sands thought the question over. "Sticky," he finally said.

El was so surprised by this that he let out his breath in a short puff. The sound this made was the final straw.

He threw back his head and laughed.

****

The laughter did not last too long, however. Sands sat up on the edge of the bed, his back to El. "I fucking hate you, you know." His head was bowed; he sounded weary.

"Why?" El asked, hoping he did not sound as defeated as he felt.

"I never thought about what happened before," Sands said. His shoulders hitched. "Now, thanks to you, it’s all I fucking think about. Thanks a whole hell of a lot."

El didn’t know what to say to that. Yes, it was his fault. He had gotten Lorenzo killed. He had made Fideo lose faith in him, precipitating Fideo’s betrayal. It was his fault the cartel members had showed up here, just in time to unleash all kinds of demons.

But the comment made him rethink what had happened yesterday. If Sands was thinking constantly now about his past, maybe El had done the right thing last night. Sands needed good memories to balance out the horrors of his childhood. Even if it had started out for the wrong reasons, the end result was that he had spent a night in bed with another man and he had not been hurt. That was the most important thing of all right now – to give him those experiences.

El shook his head. He just didn’t know what was right anymore.

Sands started to get up. El’s arm shot out. "Wait! Don’t."

Sands froze. "What?"

"The window," El said. He let his hand fall back; he had come too close to grabbing Sands’ shoulder, which could have been a horrible mistake. Things were too precarious right now. One minute Sands was joking with him, the next the agent was ready to fall apart again. He had to be very careful now, what he said and did. 

And looking at Sands right now, he was once again reminded so strongly of that wild fox he and Cesar had tried so unsuccessfully to tame.

"There’s glass on the floor," he said.

Sands was still for a moment, then he turned around. His expression was enigmatic. "No more hurts," he said quietly, repeating El’s words from the night before.

El nodded. "No more," he agreed. He reached out, letting his fingers rasp together so they would make a sound, warning Sands of his intention.

He rubbed one end of the blindfold between his fingers. "I like this," he said. The black silk was in sharp contrast to Sands’ tanned skin, and his dark hair. "It looks good on you."

"Hey, it only took an eye-gouging to find that out, too," Sands smirked.

He let go of the blindfold. "Don’t." He had always been struck by a faint regret at Sands’ loss, but now his blindness was more poignant than ever. "If I could--"

"Oh, please." Sands struck his hand away and scooted across the bed, getting out on El’s side. "Gosh, El, a few fucks and you’re already turning into a woman." He walked into the bathroom and shut the door.

El clenched his hands into fists. _Don’t_ , he told himself. _He doesn’t mean it. That’s just his way._

He knew this. But the accusation still stung.

With a sigh, he climbed out of the bed. He picked his clothes up off the floor and began walking toward the kitchen. He would need a broom to sweep up that glass.

****

Later that morning, as they sat outside, he said, "I want to leave."

His guitar was on his lap; he had been idly strumming it all morning, never actually playing a song. His discontent had been steadily growing. He did not want to fall into a pattern of sex and insults. That was not what he wanted out of life.

"Go then," Sands said casually. There were no signs of anything amiss with him, no warning that he might freak out like yesterday morning. Last night might not have happened, and today seemed just like any other day. While El was wary of that calm -- it seemed too good to be true -- he was also profoundly thankful for it. 

"I want you to come with me," El said.

Sands made a noise that quite clearly expressed his opinion of this idea. "Where would you go?"

"I don’t know," El said. "I would start in Villa de Cos, I think. I want to see the people there, and my old house."

"Your old house was shot to shit," Sands said. "Remember that? I doubt there’s much left."

"I want to see it," he repeated. "And I had friends there."

"Yeah? So go visit."

"I will," El said. "I want you to come with me."

"No. I’m not going."

"Why not?" he asked.

Sands turned to him. The morning sunlight reflected off his sunglasses. "If you want me to leave this house, you’re going to have to kidnap me. Savvy?"

The words hung in the air between them. El finally nodded. "All right. But will you at least tell me why?"

Sands shrugged. "I like this house."

El frowned. "After all that has happened here?"

Sands held up his hands, palms up. He made a see-sawing motion, lifting first the left, then the right. Left, right. Then he brought both hands to the same height. "It’s all about balance, El my dear friend."

"I thought you didn’t want to keep the balance anymore," El said.

"Oh, not for anyone else," Sands replied. "Just for me." He smirked. "After all, it was my New Year’s Resolution."

El gaped at him for a moment, then laughed. _This_ , he thought. _Why can’t it always be like this? His madness is still there, but it is so much quieter now. We could deal with it – together – if only it would stay like this._

Sands rose from his chair and started inside. "Where are you going?" El asked.

"I owe Chiclet a piano lesson," Sands said. "I figure I better practice. He’s already better than me." He went in.

El sat back. It struck him that what Sands had said was very sad. For the sake of a few good times, the agent was willing to stay in a house where his former boss had tortured and nearly killed him, and where a ruthless cartel had dredged up his deepest secrets and laughed at them.

_I can’t stand to stay here. How can he?_

_If you want me to leave this house, you’re going to have to kidnap me. Savvy?_

There had been a challenge in those words. He knew he had not heard wrong. Sands wanted to leave, but his wounded pride would not let him. 

_If you want me to leave this house, you’re going to have to kidnap me. Savvy?_

As the first piano notes sounded from in the living room, El smiled. He could savvy 

****

He laid his plans carefully. He was walking a fine line here. If anything went wrong, the damage could be catastrophic. But he kept reminding himself that Sands trusted him. Or the agent would never have said those words. He trusted El to get it right.

This did not help. The burden created by that trust was very heavy.

Still, he could not deny that he had fun with the planning. It was good to have something to look forward to again.

The first thing he did was tell Chiclet. He made a special trip into town, pretending he needed something at the market, in order to find the boy alone. He took Chiclet to the cantina and bought him a soda. "We have to go away for a little while," he said.

Chiclet immediately lost interest in lunch. "Why?"

El explained his intentions, although he said nothing about the new relationship between him and Sands. He didn’t know how to tell the boy. Moreover, he was reluctant to say the words out loud. Giving voice to them would be confirming something that still seemed ephemeral. And he worried, too, that if he told anyone what he did at night, he would be labeled, given membership to a new section of society. He had no desire to fit that label. He did not feel gay, for one thing, nor did he think this of Sands. What they had went beyond labels. It defied explanation.

Chiclet listened carefully. By the time El finished, he was nodding. "I think he should get out of there, too."

And that was it. El slumped a little in relief. "And you’ll look after the house for us?"

The boy nodded, eager to be of help. "Sí." His eyes darkened. "Will you tell me when it happens?"

"I don’t think so," El said. "You will just show up one day soon and we will be gone."  
Chiclet dropped his head, fighting tears.

"We will come back," El promised.

Chiclet just nodded, unable to speak.

****

After that it was easier. He made plans with the utility companies, told the priest that they were leaving and asked for someone to keep watch on the house. He trusted Chiclet, but there were things a man could do that a boy could not.

Four days after first conceiving of the idea, there was nothing left to do but put things in motion.

****

They had not slept together since the night Sands had nearly killed himself. Sands did not offer, and El did not ask. He was determined to stand by his vow. When it happened again – if it happened again – it had to be right.

He wondered, sometimes, how things had come to this. That he could be contemplating a future with a killer, a sociopath. Then he would remind himself that Sands had changed. 

And _he_ was a killer too, that could not be forgotten. All he had to do was remember Fideo’s pleading eyes, and he was reminded of what kind of man he was.

But if Sands had changed, so had he. Perhaps it was fitting that they had found each other. No one else in this world would have them now.

But still, he wondered.

Early on the fourth morning, he packed a bag and put it in the trunk of the car. He put both guitar cases in there. While Sands was showering, he hastily threw some of the agent’s things into a bag and put that in the trunk, too.

Then he went to stand in the corner of the living room, to wait.

Sands emerged, smelling of steam and soap, his hair still damp. He sat in the armchair, grabbed for the remote control that always stayed on the table beside the chair, and paused, remote in hand. His head cocked to one side. "El?"

As silently as possible, El stalked toward him.

Sands knew he was there. Or that _someone_ was there. The agent tensed, his hand closing tightly about the remote.

Just as El got to him, Sands made his move. He dropped the remote and his hand dove to his hip, and his guns.

El grabbed a handful of his hair, jerking his head back. He pressed his gun to Sands’ temple. "Don’t do it," he warned.

Sands went still. "What the fuck is this?"

"Put your hands in the air," El commanded. He let his voice drift down into the cold, low registers he rarely used. He didn’t like how he sounded when he talked like that. It was the voice of the killer he was.

Sands complied.

"You going to kill me, El? Did you finally decide your manly pride is offended? Is that it?"

"Stand up," El said coldly. "Who is this El person?"

Sands started in surprise. Then the merest hint of a smile quirked at the corner of his mouth. "Ah," he said, very softly. "You know," he drawled, "I live with this big hulking brute of a mariachi. If he comes home and finds I’m not here, he’ll be pretty pissed."

"Yeah?" El asked, smiling in spite of himself. "And what will he do?"

"He’ll play bad, sappy love songs on his guitar until you beg him to kill you," Sands smirked.

El had to bite down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing. "That won’t work," he said. "I am tone-deaf."

Sands sighed. "Oh well."

"Now stand up," El repeated. He pressed harder with the gun.

"All right, all right," Sands said. He stood up, having to arch his back as he rose, because of the grip El had on his hair. "So what is this all about?" He sounded bored, and slightly amused.

"You do not get to ask questions," El said, giving him a shake. Just a small one. It was all he dared. He was very aware of how he was standing, and the distance between their bodies. He knew that they were dangerously close to re-enacting the moment the cartel man named Marco had made his suggestive comment to Sands, putting the events of the last week in motion. The last thing he wanted to do was cause Sands to relive that horror.

"Fair enough," Sands drawled. "But don’t you villains usually exposition us poor victims to death anyway? So why not follow tradition and tell me the plan here?"

El grinned. After last week, he had begun to believe he would never be able to laugh again. He had lived with darkness for many years, but there were some things that were too much, even for him. It felt so good to let go of the tight hold he usually kept on himself; to remember, even for a time, the playful young man he had once been. "Let’s go," he said gruffly.

"You’re the boss," Sands shrugged. "Where to?"

"The door," El said, deliberately choosing to misunderstand the question. He gave Sands’ head a slight push in that direction. "Walk. Now."

Sands walked toward the door. His gait was relaxed. He was thoroughly enjoying the game, El realized. 

But it wasn’t much of a game if it didn’t seem real.

Abruptly he yanked on Sands’ hair, pulling the agent to a halt. Sands let out a surprised yelp, his hands flying up as he was bent backward. "What the fuck!"

El leaned in close so he could whisper in Sands’ ear. "You do not seem to realize the seriousness of your situation, Agent Sands. I think we need to correct that." He moved the gun down from Sands’ temple to press it under his jaw, forcing his head up. "Do you still think I am the boss?"

Sands was silent for so long that El feared he had gone too far. Then the agent said, "Sure." 

Nothing in his voice revealed what he was thinking. So El took a chance. "You do not sound too sure," he threatened, continuing the game.

"Well," Sands said, "that depends."

"On what?" El asked.

"On what you’re going to do with me," Sands said.

"What would you like me to do?" El asked. He relaxed his hold on the gun a little. He was still leaning close, so he pressed a kiss to the soft spot beneath Sands’ ear, along his jaw. "Would you like me to do this?"

Sands caught his breath, but said nothing.

El bent his knees so he could go lower. He left a trail of hot kisses down Sands’ neck. The unloaded gun sagged in his hand, forgotten. "What about this?"

Sands tilted his head back, his whole body going limp. "Yeah, that’s nice."

"Too bad," El said, straightening up. "I am not that kind of kidnapper."

"So you don’t ravish your abductees, huh?" Sands asked. A throaty note had entered his voice, and El thrilled to hear it.

"No," El said. "Unless they ask me to."

"I see," Sands said, still sounding a bit breathless. "I’ll have to think about that one."

In a flash, he whirled around, completely ignoring the hand caught in his hair. He swept his left arm to the side so it knocked into El’s arm, meaning the gun was no longer aimed at his head. His knee came up, and although El turned aside in shocked reaction, it was not far enough, and Sands’ knee caught him right in the thigh. The muscle there spasmed painfully, and he hollered, doubling over.

The gun was grabbed from his hand. A second later his right arm was twisted up behind him, and the gun jabbed painfully against his neck. "Now, fucker," Sands said, "who’s the boss?"

Despite the pain in his leg, El hardly dared to breathe. The amused note was gone from Sands’ voice. He sounded as cold as El had, at the start of the game.

Now he sounded like the killer.

_What have I done? Santo Dios, what have I done?_

"Hey!" Sands jammed the gun harder against the soft flesh of his throat. "Answer me!"

El swallowed painfully. "You are," he said. The gun was not loaded, thank God, and he hoped Sands knew that, but right now that did not matter one bit. All that mattered was that he had fucked up. He had pushed too hard and too far, and he had ruined one of the rare times when he and Sands were having fun.

"Damn straight I am. Who did you think you were fucking with, huh?" Sands gave his wrist a little squeeze, and El gasped. 

"I’m sorry," he managed. "It was just a game." He closed his eyes. Of all the bad decisions he had made, this was surely the worst. It was too soon, maybe, or too much. Or maybe there would never be a good time for this kind of game. Whatever the reason, Sands had not been able to deal with it, and he had snapped. 

"A game?" Sands gave a push on his trapped wrist, forcing it high, making him groan. "You think this is a fucking game?"

"I’m sorry," El whispered. He tensed, waiting for Sands to pull the trigger, wondering dully what would happen when the agent heard only the click of an empty cylinder.

"Because I sure do." Sands released him so suddenly that El staggered.

He whirled around, and saw Sands grinning. The agent rocked on his heels. "Got you."

El just stared at him, too stunned to speak. It had been a lie. A fake. The master of manipulation had done it again. Sands had taken the game and turned it on its head, the way he had always done. And he had gotten away with it, the way he had always done – until the coup, that is. 

"What’s the matter, El? Can’t you take a joke?" Sands did not stop grinning.

El shook his head. "You scared the shit out of me," he said.

Sands’ grin grew even wider. "Oh, El, that’s music to my ears." He held out the gun. "Here, you can have this back."

El put it in its holster, making a mental note to load it again. He was almost shaking with reaction, he was chagrined to note. "Don’t do that to me again," he said.

"Christ, El, be a man!" Sands said heartily. "So, where are we going?"

"I don’t know," El replied. "But I thought we’d start in Villa de Cos."

"Villa de Cos it is," Sands said. He started walking for the door.

And after a long, bemused moment, El followed him.

******

Chapter 12: Remembering

 

He wakes with a lazy yawn. He reaches his arms over his head, stretching.

He sits up in bed, and smiles. It is early evening, sunset. He has slept the afternoon through, a siesta during the hottest part of the day. The hotel room is clean, and smells of the flowers that sit on a round table beside the door. The westering sun streams in through the windows.

Sands stands in front of one of the windows. When he hears El wake, he turns around. The light behind him is so bright, El cannot see his expression. “About time you got up, Sleeping Beauty.”

El smiles. He rakes the hair back from his face. “What time is it?”

“Tequila time,” Sands says. He is outlined in light from the window. He walks toward the bed, and El. “Let’s go. I’m starving.”

“All right,” El says. He stands up. “Give me a moment.”

Sands smirks. He is still walking toward the bed. “Isn’t that my line?” He finally steps out of the bright sunlight, and El sees him, and gasps.

Sands has his eyes.

El stares at him in shock. “What? How?”

The agent frowns. “El? You been smoking something?”

It is not possible. And suddenly El knows that he is dreaming. This moment is what-might-have-been, if he had been smart enough and brave enough and strong enough, if he had stopped the coup from ever happening. This is what could have been, if he had gone to Sands immediately after their meeting in the cantina -- like he had wanted -- and confronted the CIA agent.

He is filled with bittersweet longing. _If only…_

Sands looks downright puzzled now. “Earth to El?” He waves a hand in front of El’s face. “You there?”

Sands has beautiful eyes. Deep-set, dark. Eyes made for passion. Eyes that smolder with fury, dance with laughter, and spark with spirit.

El can barely contain the pain inside him. He reaches out and takes Sands’ face between his hands. Sands closes his eyes, smiling slightly, expecting a kiss. El leans forward, using his hands to tilt Sands’ head down, so he can gently – so gently! – kiss those closed eyelids. He will never get to do this in the waking world, and while part of him thrills at this chance, mostly he just mourns.

He realizes with shock that he is almost crying.

Sands knows it too. He looks up, pulling free of El’s hands. “What’s with you?” he asks. “Because I gotta tell you, whatever drugs you took, we want some.”

We.

The fantasy of the dream darkens slightly. Even now, Sands is still insane. El sorrows to realize it, but he cannot claim to be too surprised. The madness is part of who Sands is, and that will never change.

“In fact,” Sands continues, “I think it’s past time you woke up, El. Don’t you?”

El stares at him, not wanting to let this moment go. This last chance for him to look into Sands’ eyes.

Then it is too late. He is awake.

****

He woke to disorientation and alarm. He had no idea where he was.

But when he sat up and looked around, he breathed easier. He knew this room. It was just that he had not been here in almost a year.

This was his bedroom, in his house, in Villa de Cos.

They had arrived this morning, to find the house more or less intact. The villagers had preserved it against the day when El Mariachi might return. Much of the damage from the shoot-out had been repaired, but the broken furniture had not been replaced, and there were still bullet holes in the doorframes, floor and walls.

El rose from the bed. It was shortly after one o’clock in the morning, still early by the hours he had kept as a younger man. He opened the bedroom door and glanced down the hall; he was not surprised to see the door to Sands’ room standing open.

He found the agent in the kitchen. Sands had opened the back door, and he was sitting on the stoop, in the exact place where once a dead soldier had lain. He had his back to the jamb, one knee drawn up. A lit cigarette dangled between the first two fingers of his right hand, which rested on his knee. “El,” he said. “Come to kiss me good night?”

The tone of his voice told El everything he needed to know. “I had a dream,” he said. “I needed some air.”

“Ah,” Sands said, nodding sagely. “Well,” he patted the floor next to him, knocking ash to the floor from the cigarette, “pull up a threshold. Have a seat.”

El sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor. Outside, night insects chirped and hummed as they went about their business. “What did you dream about?”

“Nothing,” Sands said airily. “Same old shit, different day.”

This told El nothing. There were probably a hundred horrors that chased themselves through Sands’ dreams. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Do I want to talk about it? Well, let me think.” Sands took a deep drag of his cigarette. “Did I ever tell you what the last thing I ever saw was?”

“Maybe,” El said, knowing now what Sands had dreamed about. He supposed it was entirely possible that Sands had told him, the night they had gotten drunk in this very kitchen, but he didn’t really remember everything they had talked about.

“It was that fucking drill,” Sands said, his voice laced with bitterness. Although he had obviously been sleeping, if he had had a nightmare, he had removed the silk blindfold and was wearing his sunglasses again. He shook his head. “You know, I always have to be different. Have to be the freak. I can’t even go blind like a normal person. At least everyone else gets to keep their eyes.”

El didn’t know what to say to this.

“I wouldn’t mind so much, I don’t think,” Sands said, “if it wasn’t for that goddamn drill. Why did that have to be the last thing I saw? I wish it had been someone’s face. Even that fucking butcher Guevara. Just…someone.”

“Do you ever see my face?” El asked.

Sands snorted. “Far too often.”

Stung, El snapped, “It was only a question.”

“Don’t ask the question if you aren’t going to like the answer,” Sands retorted. “Even you ought to know that by now, El.”

“I guess that’s one of those things I’ll never learn because I’m too stupid,” El shot back. He had endured all manner of insults about his intelligence over the months spent with Sands, but he had grown very tired of them.

“You got that right,” Sands said. He finished his cigarette, passed it to his left hand, and stubbed it out on the concrete of the stoop.

“Fuck you,” El said. It was hardly witty, but he was too angry to come up with anything better.

And to his utter surprise, Sands did not bite back. He just sighed. “You know,” he drawled, “I am a real asshole.” He gave a very unamused laugh.

“You are,” El agreed, but without any rancor.

“Gosh, thanks,” Sands said. He tipped his head back against the doorframe.

“But I’m still here,” El said.

Sands was silent for a long time. Then he nodded. “You’re still here,” he said.

****

Two days later they arrived in Durango.

They drove out to the ranch house. El parked the car on the side of the road and used a pair of bolt cutters to break the chain holding the gate closed. He threw the halves of the chain to one side, opened the gate, and got back in the car. “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Sands said.

The ranch house was deserted. One of the windows was broken, but only one. A notice had been tacked to the door. “Property of U.S. Government,” read the sign. “All Trespassers Will Be Prosecuted.” The warning was in both English and Spanish.

El read the words aloud, then seized the notice and tore it off the door. It was not paper, but a thin sheet of plastic that was stiff in his hands. “Fuck you all,” he said, and let the sign fall to the porch.

He started to open the door, but Sands stopped him with a hand on his elbow. “Wait.”

That innocent touch was enough to freeze El in his tracks. Despite himself, a flare of hope went up in his heart. 

Sands crouched down and felt for the sign. When his fingers brushed the smooth plastic, he slid it forward until it was aligned with the toes of his boots. He stood up.

El watched this curiously, not saying anything.

Sands took two deliberate steps backward. Then he quite calmly unzipped his fly and began to piss on the sign.

Nodding with satisfaction, El waited for him to finish.

“Feel free,” Sands said with a grin.

“I will let you have this honor,” El replied.

“Gracias,” Sands said, smirking.

****

Inside the house, nothing had changed. The large wooden dining room table was still there, where Belinda Harrison had once sat and written out a check for ten thousand American dollars, made payable to Jorge Ramirez. El sat at the table and re-enacted the scene with her, to Sands’ dry amusement.

But the humor went away as they made their way to the room in the back of the house. Everything in here was unchanged, as well. Just those two metal chairs, and the table. The air conditioning in the house was not on, and it was stiflingly hot in here, as it was in all the rooms, but in El’s memory this room was freezing, and always would be. The flesh on his arms broke out in goosebumps. 

Sands sat in the foremost chair and reached behind him, gripping the bar that crossed the back of the chair. To look at him, he might have been cuffed there again. El did not like the sight.

“We should go,” he said gruffly, rubbing at his arms.

Sands tilted his head back. He let go of the chair and sighed. “You know,” he said, “sitting here, I learned a lot of things about myself.”

El frowned. He had no illusions about what those things were – probably none of them had been good.

Sands reached up with trembling hands and removed his sunglasses. He held them in his left hand, and let the fingertips of his right hand brush his cheek, and then higher. Quietly, he told El what had happened to him when he had been here last, what the CIA agent he had named Boston had done to him.

Shaking himself with rage and horror, El closed his eyes. _If I had known_ … He would never forget the sight of Sands chained to that chair, blood covering his face, and that exhausted smile of relief upon hearing El’s voice. _If I had known then what he just told me, I would have killed that man myself with my bare hands._

He wanted to cross the room and take Sands into his arms. But he did not dare. 

He said, “I wish they were all here, right now in this room, lined up. All the people who have hurt you. So I could look them in the eye before I killed them.”

Sands opened his mouth to respond, then closed it. He did this twice before finally saying, “Gosh, El. That’s either very sweet of you, or very disturbing. I think I like it.”

He put on his sunglasses and stood up. “Let’s go.”

****

Another day saw them in a small town. They were merely passing through, when abruptly Sands cocked his head. “Church bells,” he said.

El had been in a road-induced trance, and he started with surprise. “What?”

Then he heard them himself. Church bells, all right. And suddenly he realized that this town looked familiar.

“Do you remember?” Sands asked.

El nodded. He did. And even though it was only five o’clock in the afternoon, when he saw the road that led to the small motel, he turned down it.

The motel was the same. After a moment of thought, El remembered the room they had stayed in, and he requested the same one. The man at the desk glared at him sullenly, as if selecting a specific roomkey from the lot of them involved extra work.

He took the key and gave the man his most winning smile.

The room did not look any different. Same horrible carpet, same bed with the sagging mattress. The bullet hole where Sands had shot into the floor remained.

El shook his head. They were repeating history.

Sands took a few steps into the room, then stopped. “Deja vu, hey El?”

“Not quite,” El said wryly, shutting the door. He sat on the plastic chair at the plastic table. “As I recall, I made it about two steps into the room when you attacked me.”

“Yeah, those were the days, huh?” Sands took another step forward. He held his right hand out, searching for the bed he knew had to be there. When he found it, he turned around and sat on the edge. “I hated you,” he said. He shook his head, chuckling. “God, how I hated you.”

“Why?” El asked. “I never did anything to you.”

“Oh, really?” Sands drawled. “Let’s see. By that point you had thrown me off the porch, handcuffed me to the car, broken my fingers and--”

“Actually,” El said, feeling immensely ashamed of himself, “that happened in here.”

Sands thought about this for a moment. “So it did,” he said. “I had forgotten that part.” He waggled his fingers. “All better now, though.”

“I thought you were very brave to force a confrontation,” El said. He marveled that they were sitting here like this, talking about such an emotionally charged event as if it was nothing. He was struck by a sudden thought. “Knowing you now, I am surprised that you waited so long to do it.”

“Oh, I wanted to do it that first day,” Sands said. “I just wasn’t strong enough. Ever had the eyes ripped out of your skull? Trust me, it takes time to recover from that.”

This was one of those things that there was no appropriate response to. El just made a noncommittal sound.

“I was really going to kill you that day, you know,” Sands said, almost conversationally.

El knew that. He had never doubted it. In hindsight, it had been madness to give Sands a gun that day. “Would you ever kill me now?”

Sands considered the question. “Do you want me to lie, or do you want me tell the truth?”

Troubled that there was a distinction to be made, El said, “I want you to be honest with me.” They had begun being honest in this room, after all. If they were going to repeat history, they might as well go all the way.

“Then the answer is, I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?” He was appalled. And hurt. “After all we have been through, your honest answer is that you _don’t know?_ ”

“Sure,” Sands said brightly, rather too brightly for El’s taste.

“Why?” he demanded.

Sands spoke in the kind of voice he would use on a small, stupid child. “Well, because I’m insane.”

El flinched as though he had been slapped. “That is not an answer,” he said. “That is an excuse.”

Sands’ jaw tightened in anger. “Yeah? What would you know about it? I mean, I know you’re not exactly the poster boy for mental health yourself, but you strike me as still having all your marbles.”

El did not understand most of this, but he understood enough. “I am perfectly sane, thank you very much.”

And then he suddenly remembered the day of Fideo’s betrayal. Sands standing in the living room, dry-firing the gun at Marco’s corpse. Shouting at El to stay back, don’t fucking move! When really he hadn’t been talking to El at all.

“You’re not in control then, are you?” he asked.

“What?” Sands asked, very cold.

“Your madness. What you call the voice. It takes over.” Suddenly he thought he understood. “That is why you almost killed me on the day of...that day.”

Sands said nothing, but he was clearly unhappy with this line of conversation.

“Why didn’t you?” El asked, wondering why he had never thought about this before. He had been unconscious then; his life had hung in the balance without him even knowing it. There had been no chance to talk Sands down. Which meant it had to have been something inside Sands that had kept him from pulling the trigger.

El felt encouraged by this. If it was true – and it had to be – it meant that Sands could fight back when the madness was in control. And he could win that battle.

“You were bleeding,” Sands said curtly.

It didn’t sound like much of a reason to El, but he just shrugged. The reasons of a madman would only make sense to the insane. All that mattered was that Sands had decided to spare El at that particular moment.

“So you took control again,” he said.

Sands heaved a sigh. “All right, look. That voice – my insanity – whatever you want to call it – the whole reason it showed up in the first place was so that I wouldn’t have to be there while my uncle was fucking me. I would just...go away. So it got to take control then.

“And it likes to be in control. It doesn’t like to give that up.

“Which is why it’s so important for _me_ to have control,” Sands said, his voice growing clipped and cold. “Because when I don’t, _it does_. And bad things happen then to the people around me. Ask Belini, or some poor waitress who had the bad luck to spill coffee on the wrong person at the wrong time. Oh wait, you can’t ask them, because they’re _dead_.”

El felt weak with realization. “All that talk about keeping the balance,” he breathed. “What you really mean is that you need to keep the balance in your own head.”

Sands sat back and spread his hands. “Ladies and gentlemen, he can be taught.”

El scowled. He didn’t want to think anymore about things like insanity and men who would hurt young children.

To divert his mind from these thoughts, he tried to remember the conversation he and Sands had shared in this room, two years ago. He looked at the corner of the room, and it took no effort at all to remember how Sands had sat there on the floor, his injured hand held to his chest, his entire body tensed for battle. Sands had demanded to know where they were going.

_Mexico City. I have contacts there. We need information if we are to take on the cartel._

It was the first full truth he had told Sands. The first time he had been entirely honest with the man. And it had opened the door, he realized now, for the start of their friendship. The trust had begun that very day.

“Mexico City,” he mused aloud. “To see a man for information.”

“You know, I thought you were taking me to the cartel,” Sands said. “So they could finish what Barillo started.” He gave El a tight, vaguely apologetic smile. “What the hell. I didn’t know you then.”

“I would have killed you myself first,” El said.

“Well I know that _now_ ,” Sands said. He rummaged in his pockets, looking for a cigarette, but came up empty. “Damnit.”

That truth about their destination, El thought now, had been the key. Everything else that had followed had come directly from that moment. He had trusted Sands with the truth, and in doing so, he had given them both a goal. More importantly, he had created a shared future for them.

_Why do you want me with you? Is this your idea of revenge? Or is it a twisted joke, sending the blind man to face the evil drug cartel?_

_I want you with me because you are a gunfighter._

Except that wasn’t the answer. It hadn’t been the answer even then. Even back then, he had felt this mysterious attraction to Sands, that connection which went far deeper than the physical. Every scrap of logic had screamed at him to go after Escalante by himself, right after the coup. But he hadn’t done it. He had refused to even entertain the idea of going after the cartel without Sands. And he had tried time and again to understand it, to justify his actions to himself, yet he had never been able to find the reason why.

_Vengeance is not always a bad thing, Agent Sands._

_This isn’t vengeance. You only think it is. Destroying the cartels won’t give me my sight back. It won’t bring your Carolina back, or your daughter._

“You saw right through me,” El said, amazed all over again at Sands’ brilliant ability to figure people out. “You did in the cantina, when we first met, and you did it again in here.”

“‘This isn’t vengeance,’” Sands said with a smile. “Yeah, I remember.”

“I will take my meaning wherever I can find it,” El said softly, repeating the words he had said two years ago.

He rose to his feet. He walked across the room and sat on the bed beside Sands. “I have found my meaning,” he said.

He reached up and moved Sands’ hair aside, so he could kiss the agent’s neck, in that spot just below his ear, the spot that always made Sands breathless.

As it did now. But El stopped after that first kiss.

_Please. Please let us have this._

Sands did not move for a long moment. Then he slowly turned his head so he faced El. “Me,” he said flatly.

El’s left hand was still holding Sands’ hair back. Now he let his hand trail over Sands’ shoulder, down his back, to stop near his hip. “You,” he said.

_You. Both of you. All of you. Whatever I can get. But you, only you._

Sands leaned forward, just enough so he could kiss El. It was hardly more than a brief moment of pressure from his lips, but to El it was like glimpsing heaven.

Sands sat back. “I don’t have meaning in my life,” he said.

“That’s all right,” El said. “We’ll keep looking.”

“We?” Sands asked. And it was not skepticism El heard in his voice. It was yearning.

“I’m not going anywhere,” El said. “I’m still here.”

“Still standing,” Sands whispered. He began to lean in again, slowly.

“Still,” El breathed.

****

And this time, it was right. 

*********


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 13: Learning

 

So they were together now. But being with Sands, El quickly learned, came with its own set of rules. Rules he had to follow.

Rule number one, above all others, was that nothing happened without Sands willing it. No sex, no kissing, no touching. No nothing. If Sands said no – which he did fairly often – he meant no. He was not being coy or seductive or funny. He was deadly serious. And if El broke the rules, then El would be punished. Usually this meant a punch in the nose, but one time it meant a pistol digging into his crotch, and after that El respected the rule.

Rule number two was just as ironclad as rule number one. No matter how much he might ask, beg, or cajole, El would never get to be the giver in their relationship. Mostly he did not mind this, but he did wish sometimes that they could switch positions, for variety if nothing else. But Sands was adamant, and El did not push too hard. He suspected this rule was one that would never be broken, even if they were to spend the next fifty years together.

Rule number three was no talking. He was allowed to ask, “Do you like that?” and “Should I stop?” but nothing more. No names. No endearments. No, “Are you all right?” And never, never, “What are you thinking?”

Rule number four was really only an adjunct to rule number three. They did not talk about it outside of the bedroom. No references to “last night.” No hints of “later tonight.” No nothing.

Rule number five was related to rules three and four. They simply did not talk about anything at all – nothing important, anyway. Sands might choose to speak of something, as he had when they had revisited the ranch house in Durango, or when he had so casually mentioned the genesis of his insanity, but that was his choice, and his alone. El’s job was just to listen, and be grateful to hear the words. And with every shared confidence, he felt new hope that Sands was learning to trust him more, that they might indeed have a future together.

Rule number six was one El found out the hard way, and it was very simple: When it came to dealing with Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, there were no rules.

****

They decided one afternoon to go to an ancient Indian temple. The ruins were little more than a tourist attraction, but El wanted to go. They were far south in Mexico now, near the Guatemalan border. They were staying in a small village, and a bus left twice a day on the trip to the ruins.

The temple was just as amazing as El had anticipated. He spent hours exploring it, listening to the tour guide, imagining the people who had once walked these halls. Sands walked at his side, incredibly bored, but he held his tongue, allowing El the chance to visit history. Once El caught him running his hand over the rough stone of the temple wall, a strange expression on his face, but he did not say anything, and El did not ask what he was thinking.

The bus left the ruins in late afternoon. It was crowded, a mix of Mexicans, Americans, and other tourists. The bus was not air conditioned and even with the windows down, very little air came inside. Children were hot and cranky; the adults fanned themselves with their hands or tour programs.

Sands sat beside the open window, a tight expression of annoyance on his face. “Christ, why did I let you talk me into this?”

 _I don’t know_ , El thought. He had made the suggestion last night, but without much hope. He had been surprised when Sands had agreed.

A man, his wife, and two children were crammed into the seat across the aisle. One of the little boys was asleep on his mother’s lap, but the older one was restless and irritable. He slithered out of his father’s arms and ran up the aisle. He slid to a halt a few rows ahead, then turned around and came skipping back. When he neared his parents, he slowed down, and looked up at El.

El smiled at him. The boy stared at him through huge dark eyes, then smiled a gap-toothed smile.

The father’s arm shot out and he grabbed his son’s arm. “Get back here,” he commanded in a Spanish dialect very different from El’s native speech.

“I want to see,” the boy said.

“Don’t run around. Get up here. Sit on my lap,” the father said wearily. He pulled his son toward him.

“No! I don’t want to,” whined the boy.

“I said, get up here!” snapped the father. He hauled his child onto his legs and leaned back in the seat, sweat trickling down his face.

The boy began to cry, angry at not being able to roam about as he willed.

Amused by this scene of domestic harmony, El turned toward Sands. He had the sudden urge to talk about his daughter, who had quite often worn the same expression of mulish stubbornness as the boy across the aisle.

What he saw wiped the smile off his face in a hurry. Sands looked as pale and shaky as he had on the morning the cartel had found them.

El glanced over his shoulder at the father and son still arguing, replayed their last words in his head, and felt sick. _Oh shit._

“It’s all right,” he said quickly. “The boy is all right.”

Sands did not hear him. A sound escaped him, a small whimper.

“Fuck,” El breathed. He looked around quickly at the bus full of people. If Sands freaked out now, every single damn one of them would be back here, gawking and pointing and whispering to each other. He could not bear the thought.

Sands flinched. “Please,” he whispered. “I don’t want to.” He made that small sound again, and began to rock back and forth.

El held a fierce debate with himself. He wanted to take Sands in his arms, but he feared that if he did, Sands would become loud and violent. But if he did nothing, soon other people on the bus would realize what was happening, and the crowd would begin to gather.

With a whispered prayer, El gathered Sands in his arms. Sands did not acknowledge him. He just pressed one hand to his mouth, trying to silence the thin, high-pitched cries he was making.

El’s blood went cold. Sands was not just remembering an episode from his past. He was reliving it.

“It’s all right,” he soothed. He pressed Sands’ head to his shoulder, rocking with him. “It’s all right. I’m here.”

None of this made the slightest impression on Sands. He was lost in his own mind, completely unaware of El’s presence, or even who he was.

El closed his eyes. “Just hold on,” he breathed. “It’ll be over soon. I promise.” He spoke not to the man in his arms, but to the frightened, hurt child Sands had become. 

He had never asked and Sands had never said, but he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Sands had killed his uncle. And he was glad, so glad of it, but at that moment, El almost wished the man was still alive. So he could hold him down, while Sands killed him again. Slowly. Painfully. Starting with castration.

After a few minutes Sands abruptly went limp in his arms. His hand dropped to his lap. His head lay on El’s shoulder, the frame of his sunglasses digging into El’s collarbone. The occasional shudder worked through him, but otherwise he was silent and still.

El did not know what to say. He wasn’t even sure Sands was entirely with him again.

The bus bounced its way back to the village. Across the aisle, the boy dozed in his father’s arms. When they arrived, El pressed a gentle kiss to the top of Sands’ head. “We’re here.”

Sands stirred, moving in such a way that El knew he had been almost asleep. This cheered him slightly. If Sands trusted him enough to fall asleep in his arms, even after such a horrible incident, then there was hope for him yet.

Sweaty tourists squeezed down the aisles, getting off the bus. El stayed right where he was, waiting.

Sands sat up, moving out of the circle of El’s arms. “I haven’t done that in a long time,” he murmured. “Did I scream?”

“No,” El whispered. He did not trust himself to say more, or speak any louder.

“Good.” Sands sighed. “Mind if we stay in tonight? Suddenly I don’t feel like dinner.” He tried to smile, and the sight of that brave attempt made El feel like crying.

“We can stay in,” he said.

“Thank you,” Sands said, and although El tried later to recall for sure, he felt pretty certain that was the first time ever Sands had said those words to him, and meant them.

****

They spent two days in their hotel room in that little village. Most of this time was spent talking.

Specifically, with El talking.

He talked about his childhood, his parents, his father the mariachi. He talked about his first guitar, and learning to play it. He talked – with reluctance – about Cesar, the older brother who had grown up to be a drug lord.

He wasn’t sure why he talked so much during those two days. It wasn’t like Sands asked him to, or even showed any curiosity over his words. But he had to fill the silence of the hours with something, and playing music seemed vulgar, after what had happened, so he used speech instead.

And on the evening of the second day, he was rewarded by Sands saying, “Sounds like a pretty nice life, El.”

He chose to ignore the sarcasm. “It was,” he said.

“And look where you ended up,” Sands said bitterly. “You’re a killer on the run from every drug cartel in Mexico, stuck with a blind, crazy American as your roommate and fuckbuddy. Some life you got there.”

It was like Sands had just punched him in the gut. “That’s not--” he started feebly.

“Not true? No? You sure about that? Because I think the reason you wanted to leave Culiacan wasn’t because you were haunted by Fideo’s face. I think you wanted to leave because you knew damn well that the cartel would be back, and this time they wouldn’t just send a little group of guys. This time every last one of them would be coming.”

El just looked at him. He knew Sands was right about the cartel, but, “That isn’t what I was going to say.”

“Oh,” Sands said, his voice heavy with comprehension.

“I do not think of you that way,” El said. “And I think you know it. But you can’t understand why I wouldn’t think that, so you mock me.”

Sands shook his head. “Ah, there he is, Mexico’s premiere psychologist. I had started to wonder if you had sent him packing.”

El did not respond to that. He was too busy trying to figure out just what he felt for Sands.

It was not love, he knew that. What he felt for Sands was nothing at all like what he had felt for Carolina. But that did not make it any less real.

So what was it then?

****

At the end of February and beginning of March they stayed for two weeks in Vera Cruz. When they left, they headed for a small town that had little to recommend it except proximity to the beach and a wide range of good hotels. They checked into their hotel and ate in the restaurant off the lobby. At sunset they sat on the balcony of their room, smoking.

“Why are we here?” El asked.

“All in good time,” Sands said. The sinking sun reflected in his wraparound sunglasses. “First, I have a question for you.”

“What is it?” El said.

“Why did you come back to Ramirez’s house, after you knew I was there? Why did you take me with you?” Sands turned to him. “And be honest.”

“I don’t know,” El said. Before Sands could protest he added hurriedly, “And that is the truth. Up until the day we met Escalante, I asked myself why I did it. I never found an answer.”

“Why didn’t you just kill me?” Sands asked.

“Because that is not who I am,” El said. “I do not kill for no reason.”

“I gave you plenty of reasons,” Sands pointed out.

“Maybe I felt sorry for you,” El said. “Even after all you had done, you did not deserve what happened to you.”

Sands scowled and flipped him off. El shrugged and stubbed out his cigarette. “You wanted me to be honest.”

“And you’ve been most helpful,” Sands said sarcastically.

“What were you expecting me to say?” he asked, genuinely wanting to know. The early days of their relationship had been so dangerous, so violent, that he was curious to know what Sands had really thought.

“I already told you. I thought you were going to turn me in to the cartel. It’s what I would have done, if the roles had been reversed.”

“No,” El said. “I have no business with any cartel.”

“Unless it involves lots of guns,” Sands grinned.

“Well that is different,” El said lightly.

“Sure, sure,” Sands said. He dropped his cigarette butt off the balcony and stood up. “Come on, let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” El asked.

“You wanted to know why we came here,” Sands said. “I’m going to show you.”

El stood up. “You’ve been here before,” he said. He should have realized it earlier. Since they had left Culiacan Sands had shown little interest in their destination. This town was the first he had specifically named, and requested they visit.

“Mexico was my beat,” Sands said with a shrug. “And I walked it. Every dusty mile of it.”

“How long were you here?” El asked. “Before the coup.”

“Let’s see,” Sands said, thinking about it. “Two...no...three years, I think. Yeah, that sounds about right.”

“Where were you before Mexico?” El asked. Until tonight he had never dared ask Sands a direct question about the past. He wondered just how far he would be allowed to go.

“Oh, I can’t tell you that,” Sands drawled. “Well, I could, but then I’d have to kill you. Don’t you know a CIA agent is supposed to be a ghost? Invisible. No one is supposed to know he was ever there.”

El thought about that big cowboy hat Sands had worn in the cantina on the day they had first met, and reflected that here was someone who didn’t know how to be invisible. “You’re not CIA anymore,” he pointed out.

Immediately he wished he hadn’t. When he had been packing Sands’ things on the morning of the “kidnapping,” he had found the agent’s CIA badge. It had been laying on the bottom of a dresser drawer, looking far more battered than El remembered it, but still intact. He had stolen a quick glance at the closed bathroom door, wondering how much longer he had before Sands came out, knowing he should leave. But he had ignored all the warnings in his head and opened the badge so he could stare at the photo again. It fascinated him. Over and over he was drawn to the cold stare in Sands’ eyes.

The man in that picture had had no concept of compassion. He had not known honesty, or kindness, or love. Looking at him had been like looking at a stranger who just happened to have the same name as the man El now shared a house with.

He had put the badge away, but he had been secretly pleased to have found it. As long as it remained in the drawer, he would be able to look at it again.

“That’s not true,” Sands said now, bringing El’s mind back to the present. “You never stop being a spook. Jorge would have told you. He shadowed his man Billy Chambers all by himself, muttering away the whole time like he was wired up to a group of feds behind him. Old habits die hard, El my dear friend.”

 _But they do die_ , El thought. _And thank God for that._

“Okay,” Sands said. “You ready to find out why I brought you here?”

El nodded. “Tell me.”

“How much money you got on you?” Sands asked.

El frowned. “Why?” Money was not an object – the dividends from Sands’ careful investing still rolled in like clockwork every month – but he had no intention of wasting any of it.

“Because we’re going gambling,” Sands smiled.

“What?” El frowned. Gambling was illegal in Mexico, as it was in the United States. A man could bet on horse races or football games, but that was about it.

“Casino del Suerte,” Sands said. “The Lucky Casino. Right here, in this town. Bet you didn’t know that, did you?”

Suddenly the fact that this small town had many nice hotels made a lot more sense.

“It’s beneath the nightclub,” Sands said. “Very illegal, of course. Very black market. You can buy anything you want there. Booze, drugs, guns, people.” He smirked. “Or so they say. Myself, I never bought anything except information.”

“People?” El repeated faintly.

“That’s what they say,” Sands said. He passed through the double doors leading out onto the balcony and went back into the hotel room. “I think it’s time we found out.”

He turned to face El. “You feeling lucky tonight?”

****

To gain access to the casino, you had to pay the bartender at the nightclub. Then you had to pay the bouncer who came to escort you there. You followed him into a back room, through a curtain, down an unlit hall, and down a flight of stairs Then you had to pay the even bigger bouncer at the metal door at the bottom of the stairs.

Then he opened the door, and you were in.

The casino was big, and it was loud. The nightclub above had been crowded, but there was easily twice the number of people in here, El saw. They packed the gaming tables, stood around slot machines, and wove their way through the narrow aisles with drinks in hand. 

Waitresses in short skirts and low-cut blouses carried trays of drinks over their heads. Cigarette smoke hung in a haze just below the ceiling, dimming the lighting in the room. The chime of the slots mingled with the calls of the dealers and the groans of the losers at the tables. In the corners, and at strategic positions scattered throughout the room, there stood men in sunglasses and dark suits.

“You ever been to Las Vegas, El?” Sands asked.

El shook his head. “No.”

Sands grinned. “Then you’re going to have a blast here.”

****

El exchanged money for chips, and he and Sands approached one of the blackjack tables. Five other people were playing, three men and two women. Every one of them had a drink, and several empty glasses littered the table.

The dealer was an old fellow, short and very dark. “You in or out?” he asked in Spanish.

Sands sat and immediately plunked down two chips, joining the game. “Oh, I’m very in,” he said in English.

El shook his head. There was one empty chair left, and he sat next to Sands.

As he handed out the top cards, the dealer muttered each number aloud. “Seis, cuatro, nueve, diez, rey.” But he did not speak of his own card.

The dealer went around the table a second time, glaring at each player to ask if they wished to hit or stand. When it came Sands’ turn, El reached under the table and poked his leg.

Sands had been dealt a six. The second card was the Queen of Diamonds. The dealer frowned.

Sands made a sharp brush-off motion with his hand. Stand.

The dealer had a four. The next card was a Jack of Spades. Followed by an eight. Bust.

Two chips were shoved toward Sands, joining the two he had bet. The agent smiled. “It’s gonna be a good night,” he said.

On the second round, El thought of an ingenious solution to the dealer’s silence over his own card. When the man turned it over, he reached out under the table and traced a seven on Sands’ thigh.

Sands jumped, but he recognized immediately what El was doing. When it came his turn, he split his two tens into two bets. The dealer turned over a king for his own second card. House rules said he had to hit on seventeen. The third card was a five. Bust. Sands won with two hands of nineteen.

El chuckled. “You’re doing well, my friend.”

“What did I tell you?” Sands said in a low voice. “I play to win.”

****

Three hours later El had to admit that Sands sure knew how to play the game. They were two thousand pesos richer than when they had walked in the door, and Sands showed no sign of stopping.

Oh, he had stopped, a few times. Twice he had gotten up from the gaming table without any warning, just gathering up his chips and walking away. To El’s questioning look he had said, “Know when to hold ‘em, know when to fold ‘em. Kenny Rogers. You’d love him, El.”

During these breaks they went to the bar and drank. The sheer number of people in the room and the narrow aisles meant Sands could walk with one hand on El’s arm, without it looking like he needed the assistance. When they had slaked their thirst, they would return to the main floor, and find a new table to sit at.

Every dealer was different. This latest one did not announce the number of the cards as he dealt. So when Sands got his card, El traced the number on his leg with one finger. When the dealer turned over his card, El used two fingers.

The rest of the time, he just watched. That sense of repeating history was with him again, stronger this time. He was enrapt all over again, perfectly happy just to sit and watch Sands. The quick tapping motion on the table when he signaled the dealer to deal him another card. The sidewise gesture to stand. The way he held the chips, lightly, almost reverently. His short smiles when he won, and the equally brief frowns when he lost.

He would have thought Sands’ concentration would have suffered from the alcohol he had drunk, but the agent was as sharp as ever. He lost a few more hands at this table, since he was not able to see what cards the other players had, and the dealer did not announce the numbers, but he was betting big, and his wins more than made up for the losses. It was not long before El realized they were being watched.

He leaned in. “We are attracting attention,” he whispered. “The wrong kind.”

Sands grinned humorlessly. “Really?”

“We should stop now,” El said. He had no grievance with the casino. He had no desire for any trouble. They were both unarmed, but the casino employees wore pistols in plain view.

“All right,” Sands said. “Go cash in.” He pushed his chair back from the table.

El gathered the chips, stood up and turned to go. He was abruptly stopped when Sands grabbed his arm. “El.”

“What?”

“How much is there?”

He made a quick count. “Three thousand pesos.”

Sands smiled. “You want to know what the real victory is tonight?”

El knew. But he asked anyway. “What is it?”

“Not one of these fuckers knows I’m blind.”

El smiled. “I know.”

He walked down the narrow aisle, the pile of chips held carefully in his cupped hands. They were mostly black and pink chips, 100 peso denominations, but there were a few other colors thrown into the mix as well. They were almost pretty, all nestled together in his hands.

The man at the cash window was slow, impervious to the insults of the people lined up waiting for their money. When it came El’s turn, he barely glanced at the mariachi, then began counting.

El looked around for Sands. The agent was still sitting at the table, finishing his drink.

“Señor?”

El turned around. Out of reflex his right hand darted downward, seeking a gun that wasn’t there.

Two casino employees stood in front of him. They looked at him dispassionately. “Señor, when you have cashed in, would you mind coming with us?”

El glanced up again at Sands. Two more suits were walking toward him. And Sands, unable to see the danger, was completely oblivious.

The man at the cash window thrust a stack of bills at El. “Good night,” he mumbled.

One of the suits took the money. “You can have this when we’re done,” he said. “Now, would you mind stepping this way, Señor?”

El thought fast. He could make one hell of a disturbance in a place like this. Even one overturned table would create a glorious chaos. People would grab for their chips, dealers would rush to protect the cards and the money, and in the resulting melee, it would be relatively easy for two men to sneak out the door.

The problem was, there was a good chance he would be shot before he could instigate that chaos.

A damn good chance.

Seeing no other choice, El shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

He pivoted on his left foot, lunging toward the nearest table, his hands already reaching out to seize it and flip it over. 

He had barely begun the turn when something struck the back of his head. Bright lights sparked in his vision, and then everything went black.

*********

Chapter 14: Gambling

 

Sands knew they were there even before he heard them. He knew it in the way the people around him went suddenly quiet, the shuffling of their footsteps as they moved back, putting distance between themselves and him.

He finished his drink and set the glass down on the gaming table. “Let’s do it,” he muttered.

A hand fell on his shoulder. “Señor?”

“What?” he asked, speaking English, as he had done all evening.

“Señor, would you please come with us?” The man spoke in Spanish.

“I don’t understand,” he said. In a halting, bad accent, “No hablo español.”

“Would you please come with us, sir?” the suit asked, now in English.

“Why?” he asked. There were at least two of them, possibly a third. It was hard to tell. They were very still, very good at what they did.

“Por favor, Señor,” the man repeated. The hand on his shoulder tightened painfully, fingers digging into the tender area beneath his collarbone.

Sands winced and shrugged. “All right.” He started to stand up.

Across the casino a woman screamed. People shouted in surprise and alarm. A man’s voice rose over the others, ordering them to stand back, that there was no danger, they had everything under control.

“Shit,” Sands muttered. He had heard the sound of a body hitting the floor. That would be El.

He stood up. One of the suits took hold of his upper arm, and while normally he would have angrily shaken off that unwanted touch, this time he allowed it. He needed the man to guide him through the casino. 

Earlier in the night walking through the casino had been an exercise in patience. One had to know the skills of elbow-nudging, shin-barking, and just plain shouldering-out-of-the-way. But walking with the suits was an entirely different experience. People parted for them without hesitation, and the path suddenly became clear. Sands made a scornful noise under his breath.

As El had guessed, he had indeed been here before. The town was close enough to Vera Cruz to attract patrons, but far enough away to elude the notice of the police. He had come here several times, always seeking information. Twice he had killed his informant after getting what he had come for, but only twice. It was not good to be noticed, and he had not wanted to be known as the kind of man who came to gamble and talk, and who then left random murders in his wake.

So as the suits guided him through the casino, he knew where they were taking him. To one of the rooms in the back, near the offices. The rooms that were small and soundproofed.

They sat him on a stool. The door closed. Long minutes passed while he sat very still and bored, wondering how long this would take. Then the door opened again and a new set of footsteps entered the room. They walked past him and beyond, then a wheeled chair was pulled out, and the newcomer sat. At a desk, no doubt.

“Habla español?” asked the newcomer.

Sands shook his head. “No. What’s this all about? Who are you?”

“My name is Luis Sandoval,” said the man in perfect, if heavily accented, English. “My men have told me that you have played well tonight, won much money.”

“Yeah,” Sands said. “It’s pretty neat. No one at home will believe me when I tell them.”

“Yes, yes.” The man sounded very friendly; Sands mistrusted him completely. “Quite a lot of money.”

Sands said nothing. An innocent, ignorant American would start blustering at this point, crying that he hadn’t cheated, honest! But even though he knew his role in this, he couldn’t bring himself to play along. He had always hated playing by someone else’s rules.

“You must understand,” the man said again, “this is a business establishment. There are rules to be followed. If we believe someone has been trying to cheat us, we must make sure it does not happen again.”

“I wasn’t cheating,” Sands said. He could hear one of the suits behind him shift position slightly, but that was all. He thought they were standing at his shoulders, but he couldn’t tell for sure.

“Yes, I am sure your winnings tonight were entirely honorable. However, you understand the position I am in?”

“Sure,” he said, trying very hard not to smile. “Heck, I’m a businessman myself.”

“Then you understand,” the man said.

“Absolutely,” Sands said. That time he did smile. He couldn’t help it. It really was too goddamn funny.

“Sir, would you be so kind as to remove your sunglasses? I must admit, I feel I am at a bit of a disadvantage here.”

_You think you’re at a disadvantage? I could tell you a thing or two about that, buddy._

“I’d rather not,” Sands said. “If it’s all the same to you.” The smile was gone from his face. He hated anyone to see him without his sunglasses. He even hated to be without them in front of El, although he had done it as proof of trust in Durango, letting the action speak for him when he could not bring himself to say the words.

“It is not the same to me,” Luis Sandoval said. “Now take them off.”

“No,” Sands said. He tensed, waiting for the inevitable blow.

It came, not to the face as he had expected, but lower, a fist to the kidneys. His body jerked to the side involuntarily, and during those few seconds when he did not control his own actions, a large hand grabbed the sunglasses and pulled them off his face.

In the stunned silence that followed, he could hear each of the men gasp in horror and revulsion. Fury burned through him -- _quit fucking staring at me!_ – but he forced himself to remain calm. “Well. As you can see, clearly I wasn’t cheating. What do you think?”

Luis Sandoval cleared his throat. “No, I--I believe you are telling the truth. There was no cheating on your part.”

The words were innocent enough, but Sands heard the slight stress on the your, and he stiffened. Shit. El. They still had El.

But did it really matter? He knew what was happening here. It probably happened several times a night. Some poor sap would get dragged back here, either deservedly or not. The casino owner would scare the sap with words, then the two goons would be turned loose. There would be a beating, probably a bad one, then the unfortunate fellow would be tossed out onto the street behind the casino with a stern admonishment to never return, on pain of death. Sands had seen it happen before. Hell, he had even caused it to happen to a few people, if they had pissed him off; just one quiet suggestion to one of the suits on the casino floor set it all in motion. He had known from the moment the suits approached him at the table what this was all about.

So did it matter? El could take a beating. The mariachi was made of stern stuff. A few bruises and a black eye would not affect him much.

Except, Sands suddenly thought, El did not deserve that. The mariachi had done nothing to warrant those bruises. He could be a bastard sometimes, he was maddeningly obtuse, and he had obvious emotional problems, as evidenced by his inability to let his dead wife go, but beneath all that, El Mariachi was a good man. He had to be. No one else put up with Sands and his shit. Only El.

 _If any of you fuckers lay a hand on him_ , he thought, _I’m going to kill you._

Luis Sandoval was saying he was free to go. The suit who had taken his sunglasses thrust them into his hand, and he put them on absently. He was trying to think of a way to get El out, too.

He stood. “So this was all just one big misunderstanding, then.”

“Sí,” said Sandoval. “You may go.”

“What about--” 

He did not get to finish. One of the suits suddenly drew in a sharp breath. “Señor,” he said urgently.

Sands felt his heart sink.

“Es el,” said the suit. Fabric rustled; he was pointing to Sands.

“Que?” asked Sandoval, clearly puzzled.

“Es el,” the man repeated. _It’s him_. “CIA.” He said it the Spanish way, so it came out, Say-ee-ah. A hand grabbed his arm, yanking him to the side. A finger jabbed against the frame of the sunglasses. “Sus ojos. Armando Barillo hizo esto.” _His eyes. Armando Barillo did this._ “El esta Agente Sands. El hombre que los cárteles buscan.” _The man the cartels are looking for._

 _Fuck._ Sands spun to the left, reaching out for the gun the suit was carrying. But the suit moved fast, and instead of grabbing the gun, his hand only brushed the man’s solid belly.

“Get him!” shouted Luis Sandoval.

There never was really much of a chance. He knew that, but that knowledge did not stop him from fighting. It was just his way. He ducked one blow, but he couldn’t see, he couldn’t fucking see what was happening, and there was no avoiding the gun butt that came down on the back of his head, no avoiding it at all.

**** 

He came to as they were carrying him to a new location. One of the suits had him by the shoulders, and the other had hold of his feet. His hands were cuffed together behind him, and that was not good, not good at all. “What’s he going to do?” asked the man by his feet.

“He’ll make a few phone calls,” answered the other, and Sands realized they were talking about Luis Sandoval, not him. He forced himself to remain limp in their grasp, so they would not suspect he was awake. 

“It’s a good thing I remembered that fax,” the man at his head said. “Or he would have gotten away with it.”

“You think Sanchez will come?” asked the other man.

“I’m sure of it. So will Alejandro and Hector Lopez. Maybe even Juan Rodriguez.”

“Rodriguez? All the way from Jalisco?”

“I think so. He almost had this agent in Puerto Vallarta, but he got away.” The man gave him a slight shake. “He won’t be getting away this time.”

The man at his feet let them drop to the floor. Keys jangled, a door was opened. The man picked up his feet again, and they walked forward. “All those cartels here...it could be bad for business.”

“It could,” said the first man. “But I think not. If I know Luis, he will find a way to make a lot of money off this man.”

“How’s that?” asked the second man.

They laid him on the ground, none too gently, and Sands fought back a groan as his weight crushed his cuffed hands.

“This is a business establishment,” the first man said, mimicking Luis Sandoval’s words from earlier. “And what do businesses do? They sell things.” He gave a short laugh. “My friend, in a day or two, this casino is going to see the highest-priced auction it has ever seen. The cartels want this man badly. I can almost guarantee that whoever gets him will spend a lot of money for the privilege.” He laughed again. “Then you and I can take a long vacation.”

“I always did want to go to Baja,” said the second man. “I just could never afford it.”

“Believe me,” said the first man, “when we get our cut of this sale, you’ll be able to afford a vacation anywhere in the world.”

The second man laughed. “Sounds good to me.”

The keying jingled. The men walked away. The door was closed.

Sands lay very still for a long time. At last he dared to breathe. “Fuck,” he said.

****

All right. Think. He had to get out of here. If he stayed, he was going to be sold off to whichever cartel was willing to pay the most for his sorry hide, and he had an idea that if that happened, he would be begging for death before too long.

_Think, asshole. How are you going to get out of here? You can’t expect me to do everything for you. It’s time you pulled your own weight around here._

“Shut up,” he muttered. He pushed himself awkwardly up to a sitting position. First thing first. He had to get out of these fucking handcuffs.

He had known one of the professors at the Academy who had sworn by an old trick. “Dislocate your own thumb,” the man had said. “Then you can pull your hand through the cuff and bring it around in front of you. You’ll still have one hand in a cuff, but at least both hands will be free and in front of you, and that’s what matters. And it doesn’t even hurt. Chances are, you’ll be so full of adrenaline when you do it that you won’t even feel it.”

Sands had been fascinated by this idea. He had been all set to learn it, too. He had gone to one of Langley’s doctors, and told her to dislocate his thumb, so he could do it at will in the future. 

She had not been happy with this. She had proceeded to lecture him about the dangers, and bored within thirty seconds, he had tuned her out. Until she got to the part about being crippled for life. That had gotten his attention again, in a hurry. “What?”

Yeah, turned out if something went wrong, you could be crippled, unable to use your thumb ever again. Stupid fuckmook professor had forgotten to mention that part.

Sands had stood up, grabbed his coat, and walked out of the office.

He wished now he had done it anyway.

So then. Get the fucking cuffs off? Well, that wasn’t going to happen. But maybe he could at least get his hands in front of him.

He had done it before, but that had been nearly twenty years ago, in class at the Academy. Each of them had been handcuffed, and they had been timed, how long it took for them to bring their hands in front of them. As a young man in his early twenties he had been able to do it in seconds. Now, he was not so sure.

_Well you better try, fuckwit. Because the longer you stay here, the better the odds that you’re going to end up buried in Diego Sanchez’s backyard._

“I know that,” he whispered. “Shut up and let me do this.”

He leaned backward until the wall touched his shoulders, then scooted down a little. He arched his back, raising his hips, trying to work his hands under his ass. Thank god he was still skinny; if he had quit smoking all those years ago like they had wanted him to, he would have put on weight and then there would be no way this would work.

As it was, he wasn’t sure it would work now. His shoulders were screaming in protest, and his head kept insisting that it had been hit a little while ago, did he think he could forget that?

Just as he was sure something was about to give in his shoulder, his hands finally slid past his hips. He let his head fall back against the wall, breathing heavily.

_Don’t stop there. Come on. You can do it._

The voice actually sounded encouraging now. Compassionate, even. He knew this was a lie, but it was still nice to hear.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I’m getting there.” He raised his hands, bringing his legs up and over the chain connecting the cuffs. He had to crush his knees to his chest in order to get his feet through, but at last it was done.

He sat up straight, still leaning on the wall for support. His cuffed hands rested in his lap. “One down, one to go.”

Now came the hard part. He had to get out of here. Wherever “here” was. He suspected he was in a small antechamber off someone’s office, a room where no one went who did not have an express purpose for being there. A room most workers in the casino would never even suspect existed.

And was it, he wondered, a room close to where El was right now? A room where two goons in suits might be hammering away on the mariachi with fists and steel-toed imitation-Gucci loafers?

“Fuck you,” he snarled. “You better not be.” He had carte blanche to do what he wanted to El. But no one else had that right. Only he could hurt El. Not some suit-wearing fucker in a place like this.

He rose to his feet. Time to go.

He had never been much of a reader, but he had always liked TV, movies, and even theater shows. Fiction was good. It was an escape from reality. Books were no good however, because they left too much up to the reader’s imagination – and he and his imagination had never been friends.

He tried now to think of all the movies he had seen, the TV shows where the hero got out of a locked room. What was the secret? What were the little tricks he could now do?

A bitter laugh escaped him. For all he knew, the key to the door was sitting out there in plain view. He sure as hell couldn’t see it.

Well, all right. Time to find out.

He began exploring the room, taking his time, making sure he didn’t miss anything.

Fifteen minutes later, the search was over. The depressing truth was that there wasn’t anything to miss.

The room was small, and it was indeed someone’s office. Or it could have been. There were three large desks in the room, all of them probably cast-offs from Luis Sandoval’s office. There were no chairs. No filing cabinets. Just the desks. All the drawers were locked, except the lap drawer on each desk, and these were completely empty. He hadn’t even found a fucking paper clip.

With an angry sigh, he slid down to sit against the wall beside the door. His head was throbbing, and his shoulders ached, especially the right. He suspected he had pulled something there during his feat of athletic prowess.

_Now what, asshole?_

_Shut up. Just shut up! I don’t fucking need you right now, so go away!_

The voice just laughed nastily. _You always need me. And say, what do you think they’re doing to El right now?_

No no no. Don’t think about that.

Okay. He could be in here for a long time. All night, probably. And that was no good. He had to get someone in here. That was the only way he was getting out. He would have to start kicking at the door and hollering. He could pretend he was sick, or that he needed to pee, something to get them in here. He was valuable to them, worth a lot of money, so they would have to treat him well. Bring him food and let him use the bathroom and all those nice amenities.

_And if they don’t? If they decide to let you starve in here?_

“Oh, shut up!” he yelled. He reached down and grabbed the scorpion dagger out of his boot, feeling a nasty grin spread across his face as his hand closed over the hilt. No weapons allowed in Casino del Suerte, but that meant only guns, as far as Sands was concerned. He never went anywhere without the dagger. It had tasted his blood; it knew him, and he knew it.

The voice in his head just laughed. For a terrible moment he had a vision of himself, gaunt and wasted away to practically nothing, kneeling before Diego Sanchez, new drug lord in Sinaloa and Culiacan. The image terrified him, because he could see it happening all too clearly, if he didn’t get out of here.

“No,” he snarled. “No fucking way.” He stood up and drew his foot back, ready to start kicking at the door.

And the door opened.

For a moment he was too stunned to do more than stand there. Then the survival instinct kicked in, and it was all systems go.

The man started to speak. “Sands--”

His words were abruptly cut off as Sands buried the dagger in his chest.

The door to the room was still open, and that was good, but less good was the fact that they were still standing in front of it, where anybody passing by could look in and see what was happening. With both hands still on the hilt of the dagger, Sands forcibly turned the man to one side, and began walking him backward.

“Garh!” The man uttered a strangled cry. One hand beat at his chest.

_Gun. He has a gun._

_I know!_

He changed direction, jerking the man to the right. His right foot struck one of the desks in the middle of the room just as he heard the distinct sound of a gun being drawn from its holster.

Sands let go of the dagger and reached up to grab the man by the hair. With all his strength, he slammed the man’s head onto the desk, facedown. Something gave in his shoulder at the wrenching downward motion, but he gritted his teeth and ignored the pain. 

The man tried to scream and managed only another one of those strangled cries. Sands lifted his head again. The man twisted in his grasp, and one arm bumped his own as the man raised the gun. The barrel touched the side of his head, wavered, then touched him again.

He brought the man’s head down on the desk again. This time there was a horrid crunching noise.

The gun went off. The sound was the whole world. Bright pain exploded in his skull, and Sands cried out.

He and the man hit the floor at the same time.

He lay where he had fallen. He could hear nothing but a high-pitched ringing in his ear. The bullet had just nicked him, he knew that rationally, but the pain was incredibly disproportionate to the injury. It yelled and screamed and stampeded through his brain.

At least it shut the voice up.

No one came running in to see what had happened. Men with guns did not storm into the room. They had not heard the shot. These rooms must be soundproofed, too. Maybe on busy nights all the other interrogation rooms got full and they had to use spare offices like this one.

He lay on the floor, unable to move. He wanted to raise his cuffed hands and cup the hurt on the side of his head, but his right shoulder was a frozen scream of pain. He could not raise his arm. He cursed feebly, and he heard the words through his left ear, but they sounded very distant and far away, like they had been spoken in another country.

All right. Well, the man he had just killed probably didn’t have any spare Vicodin laying around, but maybe he would have something even better – the key to the handcuffs. With a low groan he could not hear, Sands rolled over and forced himself up to his knees.

Bad move. Oh very bad move. The whole world did a dizzying tilt, and he slumped to the side. His shoulder hit the desk first, then his head. He jerked upright, biting his lip to keep from screaming.

Oh Christ, oh god, oh god.

_Look at you. Jesus. Can’t even kill a guy right. You deserve to be locked up in here._

“Fuck you,” he whispered. Or maybe he shouted it. He had no idea. He couldn’t hear a fucking thing anyway.

Panic wanted to settle in. He couldn’t see, and now he couldn’t hear for shit, either. How the hell was he supposed to get out of here now?

Inside his head, the voice laughed merrily, completely undaunted by the pain dancing in circles around it.

“Tell you what,” he panted. “You stay here. I think I’m getting out.”

 _I’d love to see you try_ , laughed the voice.

Slowly, being careful of the fucking desk, Sands leaned forward. He let his hands lead the way, favoring the right, trying to keep his arm pressed as close to his body as he could. He didn’t think the shoulder was dislocated, but something up there sure wasn’t happy.

His fingers touched cloth. He scooted forward on his knees so he could get closer.

His left hand brushed the dead man’s face. Or what was left of it. He let his fingers trail over the wide nose, the full mouth, on down the throat, hoping to end up at the man’s belt, where he would find a key, the key, any key—

His mind stopped working.

That face.

Oh my god.

He forced his suddenly trembling hands to return to the man’s face. The man who he had killed.

The man who, upon entering the room, had said, “Sands.” Not “Agent Sands.” Just his name.

“No,” he breathed. “Oh god, no.”

There wasn’t enough of the man’s face left to be sure. But the nose, the mouth, the firm chin. They were all familiar, in a horrible, chilling way.

He had just killed El.

*********

Chapter 15: Dueling

 

El was dead.

He had killed El.

Sands flung himself away from the body, trying to put as much distance between it and himself as he could. Too soon the wall caught him at his back, and he turned around, pressing himself into the corner.

He shook his head, desperately trying to negate the truth. “No,” he whispered. “No.”

The voice within laughed. _Looks like it’s just you and me from now on, kiddo._

No wonder no one had come running at the sounds of the struggle. No one knew there was any reason to come running. El had gotten free from his captors and come back here for a rescue, in that annoyingly selfless manner he had.

 _And you killed him!_ The voice howled with joy. _You finally did it! Took you long enough, but you finally did it. I’m proud of you!_

El was dead.

He would just let the cartels take him now. Let the casino people stand him on the platform and sell him to the highest bidder. What did it matter anymore? There could be no life for him after this. What was he supposed to do now? Return to Culiacan and tell Chiclet that he had killed the mariachi?

_It’s like this, Chiclet. I am a very fucked up person. And I’ve never known anyone like El before. I don’t understand him, and why he does the things he does. I don’t understand why anyone would do things for me. So you see, Chiclet, I never once thought that he would be coming back here for me. It just never occurred to me. So when he walked in that door, I thought he was one of the bad guys, and I killed him. I didn’t even hesitate. I just...killed him._

Oh god. Oh god. He could just see the betrayed look on the kid’s face at hearing such a speech. The boy would walk away and never have anything to do with him again. And who could blame him?

He drew up his knees and rested his forehead on them. He thought he was making a sound, some kind of anguished keening, but he couldn’t hear anything, so he couldn’t be sure.

El was dead.

It wasn’t possible. He had never known anyone as alive as El Mariachi. El had more passion than any two people put together. He had strength, courage, and a streak of nobility that would have been right at home on a knight in the Crusades. He had almost no sense of humor, but an amazing ability to see the good in all things. A musician’s ability, a poet’s talent.

How could that man be dead?

El was the first person in all his life who had made him feel like he had a reason for existing. Like there was a reason to get up in the morning and carry on with his sorry life. El was proud and sometimes arrogant, but El made him feel safe. El kissed him at night and made his body come alive until sometimes he thought he would fly apart with emotion. El made him feel hope -- for himself, and for the future. When he was in El’s arms, there were no voices in his head telling him that he was crazy, or worthless. When he was with El, everything felt...right.

He liked El. He respected El. He trusted El. He... 

What?

_You love him, don’t you?_

_I told you once before, there is no such thing as love._

True.

But....

_I think I could have learned to love you, El. If only I had been given more time. If only you had been there to help me. I came so close, I think. And now I’ll never know._

The voice in his head went wild with glee. _Listen to this! Oh my god, I didn’t think you could sink any lower, but listen to you! Look at you!_

 _So what?_ he snarled at it. _Fuck you. No one wants you, but El wanted me. That’s more than you’ll ever know._

This made the voice pause. _Really?_ it asked slyly. _Are you sure about that? Sure you don’t want me here? Sure you don’t need me?_

_I’m sure._

_Better think carefully about that one. Because when Sanchez and his men get their hands on you, you’ll be crying for me all too soon, and we both know it. They’ll make what Barillo did to you look like a paper cut by comparison. And you’ll be screaming and pleading, and guess what, fuckmook? I won’t be there. You’ll be on your own._

Well, what did it matter? Yeah, they would kill him, and his last few days alive would be ones of screaming horror, but how was that so different from his life now?

“Fine with me,” he said, lifting his head from his knees. Just a little, and slowly. It hurt too much to do otherwise. “I don’t want you around anyway.”

_Yeah, right. How many times have I heard that one before? And every time there’s trouble, who do you come crying to, to save you? Me!_

But that wasn’t true. He did not ask for the voice’s help. He had not, in years. It was just there, whenever things happened. And sometimes even when they didn’t. Sometimes it was just there, delighting in its chance to take control and sow chaos in the world. It was the voice that had said, _That spill just cost you your life_ , before shooting Belini and the unfortunate waitress. It was the voice that had urged him to think about taking the payoff money meant for General Marquez. It had been born in a time of trauma and chaos, and it reveled in those things. It lived for them.

“I don’t need you anymore,” he said. The words were tinny and distant. “There’s no need for you.”

“That’s not true,” he said. But he knew it was. A man could only take so much, and El was hardly the most patient of men to begin with. It was truly a wonder that the mariachi had put up with him for as long as he had.

_And by the way, just what do you really think is going to happen when those cartel men get their hands on you, on pretty little you?_

“No,” he moaned. That was his own deep-seated fears talking. Men like his Uncle Tommy, like Marco of the cartel, were few and far between. The voice was just playing on his fears.

_You go ahead and keep telling yourself that, if it helps. The truth is, you need me, and you know it. You don’t have to like it – hell, you know how I feel about you – but you do have to accept it._

Did he? Did he really? There were dangers in the world, no doubt about that. There were sick fucks out there like Uncle Tommy and Boston. But he could take care of himself. He had proven that time and again. He did not need anyone’s help.

_Besides, you keep telling me to go away...where the fuck do you think I’m going, Einstein? I’m you! I’m not going anywhere!_

Oh god, it was right. Where could it go? How was he ever going to escape from it?

Maybe, maybe...maybe there was no escape. Maybe he had had it wrong all this time. Maybe the best thing to do was to let the voice win. Maybe he just had to stop fighting. Maybe then all the pain and confusion would go away.

Maybe then he would finally know peace.

Slowly, Sands lowered himself to the floor. He lay very still.

_All right then. You win. I give up._

He waited. He wondered what it would be like. If he would still be able to feel, and hear, and know what was happening to him. Or if it would be like dying, and his conscious mind would just cease to exist.

And from somewhere deep within, in that place where resided all his secretmost yearnings, came a new voice. This one was different from the other voice, the one he hated. This voice sounded...familiar somehow.

 _Don’t_ , it said mournfully. _Don’t do it. If you do, he will take control, and he will never let you out again._ I never left, whispered the child. _You just couldn’t hear me before._

“What do I do?” he cried. “What do I do? Help me!”

_You know._

“No, I don’t!” he cried. “Help me! Tell me what to do!” The need to be rid of the voice was overpowering. He had never felt such loathing before, such atavistic revulsion. He had to get that thing out of his head, he had to, he had to.

_You know what to do._

And he did.

He pulled himself painfully up to his knees. He crawled forward on his elbows and knees, his head hanging. Every step hurt, but what did it matter? Nothing mattered anymore, except exorcising himself of the demon within.

 _What are you doing?_ demanded the voice of his madness.

“None...of your fucking...business,” he panted.

There. There was El’s body. He let his fingers brush over El’s chest until they found the scorpion dagger. The dagger that had once belonged to El. 

He pulled it free, having to tug hard when the blade got hung up on El’s breastbone. It finally came loose with a grisly squeal of metal on bone that he felt more than heard.

Sands raised the bloody point to his face.

What are you doing?

With his left hand he removed his sunglasses. With his right, he placed the point of the dagger at the base of one empty eyesocket.

“You’re me. There’s no escaping,” he said, breathing hard with terror and wild, desperate hope. “That means we have to live with each other, asshole. And it means that one of us has got to be in charge.” He pressed in with the blade. “And that person is going to be me. You savvy?”

_You won’t!_

“Try me, fucker!” he snapped. “Cartel’s going to have me in a day or two. I’m already a dead man. So you go on, try me.”

Blood ran freely down his face. He supposed he ought to be in pain, but he could not feel anything. There was no pain. Only a deep exhilaration.

 _You can’t shut me up forever!_ the voice shouted furiously.

“Maybe not, but I’m willing to bet you can give it a good try.”

_You’re not strong enough. You’ll never make it!_

“Wanna bet?” He dug the blade deeper.

_What are you doing? You’re crazy!_

“I know,” Sands laughed. In the next instant his voice dropped, became low and cold. “But I think, not anymore.”

 _You need me!_ The voice threw images at him, things he had not let himself think of in years, rotting memories from the past that made him recoil with shame and fear. “No,” he moaned. “Stop.”

 _You see? You can’t do it on your own! You_ need _me!_

The mental onslaught continued. There was his six-year old self, huddled in the hall while his father shouted at his mother who just stared back with sedative-glazed eyes. There was his seven-year old self, cowering in terror from a hand reaching for him. There was Ajedrez, sitting down at that table. _You really didn’t see it coming, did you?_ There was Barillo. _We must make sure that does not happen again._

“No,” he pleaded. The knife sagged in his hand, the bloody tip trembling downward.

The voice just laughed, and threw more at him, decaying memories dredged up from the fetid swampland where it lived.

Barillo. Belinda Harrison. A thick Boston accent and a cold gun. Uncle Tommy. _You know what happens to bad boys, don’t you? They get punished. Now come sit on my lap._

A drill. Dr. Guevara. _It’s kind of hard for me to tell because I’m having a very bad day._

_Look out there! It’s a fucking coup d’etat!_

_I can’t see fuckmook! I have no eyes!_

_Wait!_

He drew in a shaky breath. Wait. Stop.

Because that memory, that nightmare moment in the cab, that was not so bad. 

Why?

Because he had not been alone then. Someone had been with him.

Who?

Chiclet.

The swarm of images faltered. He heard the voice snarling in rage, but he barely noticed.

Chiclet.

Thoughts of Chiclet led inexorably to thoughts of El.

He had good things to remember too.

And that was it, wasn’t it? The horrible things the voice wanted him to remember? They were just memories, after all. They had happened in the past. They could not hurt him anymore.

He felt his strength return. “No! I never needed you!” he shouted. “You made me think that, but I never! Now go away, and _leave me alone!_ ”

 _You can’t!_ shouted the voice.

“I don’t need you!” he screamed. 

The voice gave one last shriek of hatred, then it was gone.

The dagger fell from his hand. It clattered on the floor.

For the first time in thirty-five years, there was only silence in Sands’ head. Just before he passed out, he thought he had never heard anything more beautiful.

****

He could not have been out for long, because when he woke, he was still bleeding. He rolled onto his back. “Fuck.”

The sound of his own voice was still muffled, but it was clearer than it had been. He was getting his hearing back.

For a long time he just lay there, listening to the far-off sound of his own breathing. Blood ran down the side of his face and pooled on the floor beneath him. The pain was like ice, freezing him all the way through. He wondered how badly he had cut himself, then decided he didn’t want to know.

After a while it occurred to him that he needed to get up. He needed to get moving. He needed a plan. He had killed his best friend today – his _only_ friend – but the world still went on. Luis Sandoval and the rest of Casino del Suerte still planned to auction him off to the cartels.

He had to get out of here.

Slowly, he sat up. He felt carefully for his sunglasses and put them on. Immediately the lens on the right side was coated in blood, and he smiled bitterly. Deja vu, folks. The Day of the Dead all over again.

Now the dagger. He let his fingers tap along the floor, searching for the knife. It had belonged to El. It had taken El’s life. He could not leave it here. He would keep it always, a reminder of what he had once had.

His fingers brushed something, and he drew back instinctively. Then he reached out again.

Cool skin. An arm. A wrist. A slack left hand.

He gathered El’s hand in his. “I’m sorry,” he said. He raised El’s hand to his lips and kissed the smooth skin. “I’m so sorry.”

He laid El’s hand back on the floor, gently. In death he could touch El with all the gentleness he had found so hard to summon in life. El had touched him that way, but he had rarely returned the favor. He wished forlornly now that he had been stronger, braver, not so fucked up. If only he had realized what he had had. 

If only...

The dagger lay close by. He slid it back into its sheath in his boot without bothering to wipe the blood off the blade. He turned toward the door.

And it hit him.

_The smoothness of the skin on El’s hand._

A shudder of hope worked through him. He whirled around, scrabbling at the floor, searching for that hand again. 

There. There! He ran his fingers over the palm of the man’s hand. The man’s left hand.

The skin was smooth.

No scar.

Not El.

This was not El.

A low groan escaped him. It wasn’t El.

El was not dead.

Overcome with a gratitude so powerful it left him weak and trembling in its wake, Sands bowed his head to the floor and just laughed. 

****

After a time he realized his laughter had become semi-hysterical sobs, and he forced himself to stop. His sinuses burned with a prickly pressure he had felt only twice before – once in Puerto Vallarta, and once again when Chiclet had come back to him after the disaster at Christmas. It was the burn of a body that wanted to cry, but no longer could.

“No time for that now,” he panted. Plenty of time later, if he wanted. Hell, a lot had happened here tonight. And there was still a reckoning in his future. The madness was silent now, but not gone. Not by a long shot. And when it came back – as he knew it would – it was going to be _really_ pissed.

“Not now, though. Okay? Please?” He sat up slowly. Oh Christ he hurt, mostly in his head and shoulder. Blood streamed down the right side of his face, but strangely, there was not much pain. There was only that freezing sensation. He knew this to be a bad sign, but at the moment he could not bring himself to care.

“You still in there, little Sheldon?”

Nothing. All the voices were silent. That was good.

“Okay. We’re getting the fuck out of here.”

Now that he knew the body on the floor did not belong to El, he had no qualms about going through its pockets. He took the man’s gun, but there was no key to the handcuffs. There was, however, a key to the door.

“That’ll do just fine,” he grinned.

And then he stopped. His sense of self-preservation shrilled at him to get out, get out now, but he was curious. He had to know.

Slowly, he explored the remains of the dead man’s face again. This time, now that he was calm, he could feel the differences between this man and El. This man’s nose was broader than El’s, and there was a cleft to his chin that El did not have.

And El would not have shot at him. El would have hit him, sure, anything to get him off, but El would not have shot at him.

Sitting here right now, it seemed crazy that he had mistaken this man for El.

“Crazy, yeah,” he laughed humorlessly. “That’s me.”

He crawled over to the door, lurching forward on his elbows and knees in short little steps. His shoulder screamed with pain every time he moved his right arm forward. When he reached the door, he used the barrel of the gun to investigate. He wanted to postpone as long as possible the moment when he would have to stand up.

The door was still open. Just barely ajar, but open.

Sands grinned. “Ready or not, motherfuckers, here I come.”

He pushed himself up to his feet, trying to keep his balance so he wouldn’t fall into the wall at his right. Whatever was wrong with his shoulder, it was _really_ unhappy right now. And the room was growing steadily colder. Or maybe that was just him, growing steadily colder, the ice spreading through him from that hole in his face where once upon a time in Mexico his right eye had lived and died.

I’m not staying here. I can’t.

No one responded. The voice was still silent.

He eased the door open and shuffled out into the hall. The collar of his shirt clung clammily to his throat, soaked with the blood that ran down his face and neck. He held the gun in both hands, down low, cocked and ready to use.

It was hard to keep his balance. He ended up leaning heavily against the left-hand side of the wall, stumbling along it. The high-pitched ringing in his ear was fading, but it was still there, obscuring his ability to pick out sounds and use them to know what was happening around him.

So when the suits found him, he couldn’t really claim to be surprised.

“Hey! Stop right there!” The shout came from ahead of him, along with at least two sets of footsteps. It was hard to tell. A thin roaring had joined the ringing in his ears.

He didn’t hesitate. He was valuable property to them; they wouldn’t shoot.

He, however, had no such scruples.

He shot the man who had called out, and at least one other. Footsteps scrambled along the floor as they hurried to get out of the way, ducking into doorways or behind corners, or whatever the hell they were doing. A gun cocked, and immediately a voice shouted, “No! Don’t shoot him!”

“That’s right,” he said. “You just listen to him.” He sidled forward again.

“Holy shit, look at his face,” one of them breathed. “What happened to him?”

A footfall sounded behind him. Just one. And it had to be close, if had heard it at all. Snarling with frustrated fury, he spun around, bringing up the gun. A thick bolt of pain slipped through his skull, and he swayed. 

Someone tackled him. From behind. They had snuck up on him, making him turn around, and then the ones who had cowered in front of him had attacked from what was now the rear. He was knocked to the floor, yelling and cursing. “Fuckers! Get off me!”

Hands grabbed at him, holding him down. His right shoulder screamed in protest. Someone tore his sunglasses off. “Oh my god,” someone said.

He wanted to keep fighting, but he had come to the end of his strength. He slumped, struggling no more against their hands.

“Get the doctor,” someone ordered. Footsteps hurried away.

The doctor. No! Fear gave him new strength, and he twisted in their grip. “No! Let me go!”

Someone planted a knee in his back. Hands gripped his shoulders, and he screamed at the pain that shot all the way up his right arm, leaving his fingers tingling.

Another firm hand held his head down. “Stay still.”

The doctor. Oh Christ. The doctor. 

A new set of footsteps came forward. “Here.”

“Good,” the man holding him down said.

He made one last effort to get free, and the man holding him down lost patience. A fist struck the back of his head.

The last thing he felt was the prick of the needle in his neck.

**** 

Time passed. He didn’t know how much. He measured the passage of time by the way the sounds of the world grew steadily clearer. And as they did, so too did the terrible pain in his head. It was the Day of the Dead all over again, all right. And this time he had no one to blame but himself.

But the voice in his head remained silent.

He wondered dimly where he was. He lay on a bed, a cot, really. A fresh new bandage covered the ruin of his right eyesocket. Occasionally something plastic bumped his mouth, and he drank. One time he was awake to feel the prick of the needle, but mostly he just slept.

Finally there came the sound of approaching footsteps. Hands hooked under his arms, pulling him to his feet. “It’s show time,” someone said. “Are you going to give us any trouble?”

Trouble. He supposed he would, if he was capable of it. Unfortunately, he wasn’t.

The hands shook him. “Well?”

He made a bleary sound that they must have taken for a negative, because the shaking stopped.

His hands were pulled around behind him. His shoulder shrilled in protest, and he tried to pull away. The cuffs were cold about his wrists. “Don’t,” he gasped.

“What is it?” asked one of the men.

“My shoulder,” he breathed. Ah, that he should have sunk so low, begging the enemy for help.

Well, who else was there to ask?

“Cuff his hands in front of him,” said the man.

“What difference does it make?” asked another. “He’ll be cartel fodder in an hour anyway.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” snapped the first man. “Just do it.”

The second man gave an exasperated grunt, but did as he was told. Sands slumped in relief. His shoulder still hurt, but the pain was less when his hands were in front of him.

“No trouble now,” said the first man.

“No trouble,” he repeated.

They started walking for the door. He went with them docilely.

_El, if you’re out there, and you’re not too sick of me, it sure would be nice to see you again._

*********

Chapter 16: Reuniting

 

El was indeed still there.

Still standing, one might say.

****

El Mariachi was a very angry man.

The auction was eerily quiet compared to the noise of the casino. El stood in the back corner, his arms folded, head down beneath the dark hat he wore. In the two days since his forcible ejection from the casino, the bruises on his face had only become starker, and he did not want to draw attention to them.

He rather suspected it was too late, anyway. He was drawing attention to himself just by being here. Nearly everyone in this room tonight was cartel. Those few who had come for the sale of other items had made their purchases and left. 

It had been a terribly frustrating two days. Frustrating because he had spent most of the first day in bed in his hotel room, in too much pain to even move. The casino’s goons had been very thorough. He had several broken ribs and a few broken fingers to match. His nose was broken again, and his left eye still did not want to open all the way.

That was all right. He had been hurt worse before, God knew.

Still, it had been very hard to lay low, to let them think they had gotten the better of him. He had staggered away from the casino to the sound of their laughter in his ears, and it had taken all his willpower not to return that very night and kill every last one of them. Instead he had returned to the hotel and passed out.

All day long he had sat at a table in a dim corner of the nightclub, drinking and then drinking some more, and then pretending to drink. He had watched the people who passed on through, on their way to the casino. Around seven o’clock he had paid his own fees in order to enter Casino del Suerte. No one had even blinked at the sight of him, except maybe the bouncer at the bottom of the stairs, but that man had kept his mouth shut. What did he care if some guy who had been kicked out went inside again and got his sorry ass shot?

So here El was. He had stood through the sale of some automatic weapons, a sizable lot of cocaine, a set of surface-to-air missiles that had purportedly come from Cuba, and a host of other shit. During all this he had closed his eyes, letting the singsong chant of the auctioneer wash over him.

But now the highlight of the evening had come. The men in the chairs sat up a little straighter. El opened his eyes.

“Señores,” said the auctioneer. He licked his lips nervously. None of the cartel members was armed – to the visible eye -- but that meant nothing. Right now there were at least a dozen guns in this room.

El himself had two.

“Debo preguntar que usted se queda sentado.” _I must ask that you remain seated._

“Por favor, espera hasta que la subasta se termine antes de hacer algo. Todos tendrán una oportunidad de mandar en el agente. Ahora, la subasta ha empezado.” _Please, wait until the auction has finished before doing anything. Everyone will have a chance to bid on the agent. Now, let the auction begin._

The auctioneer stood on a small stage, something that would have looked right at home in any school’s theater. A deep red curtain separated the stage area from the back. The curtain now parted, and three men walked out.

El did not move, but his hands clenched into fists.

Sands walked between two men in dark suits. His hands were cuffed together. He was not very steady on his feet, and it was easy to see why. He was wearing his sunglasses, but beneath them, a bloody bandage covered the right side of his face.

Shouts rose in the room. Threats, and laughter. Sands lifted his head and seemed to survey the room. After a long pause, he raised the middle finger of his right hand. A faint smile crossed his face.

The room erupted. Several men leapt to their feet. Guns were pulled.

The auctioneer blanched. The men in suits drew their own weapons. “Señores!” shouted the auctioneer. “Por favor! Baje sus armas!” _Lower your weapons!_

The men did, all but one. This man stood in the center of the room. Diego Sanchez, new ruler of the cartel whose territory included Culiacan. Ruler of the cartel that had kidnapped Chiclet’s brother, that had listened to Fideo and come to collect Sands from the very house he lived in. 

“Tell me why I should not kill this asshole right now,” Sanchez said coldly. He was El’s height and build, but he shaved his head. The stories of how he had escaped the massacre at Ramon Escalante’s hacienda varied, but one truth remained the same in all of them: Sanchez had not been there that day, and now he ruled the cartel.

Sands just smirked at him.

El wanted to raise his fists in the air with exultation. He had feared the worst over the past two days, but apparently captivity had done nothing to dull Sands’ spirit.

“Because if you do,” the auctioneer said smoothly, “this room will turn into a shooting ground. And I think neither of us want that.”

Diego Sanchez stared hard at the suits with their guns. More of them had materialized from behind the red curtain, and every one of them had his gun aimed at the cartel leader. Sanchez scoffed, but he did holster his weapon. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

The auctioneer took his cue. “Quién hace la oferta cinco mil?” _Who will offer five thousand?_

Five thousand. That was the starting bid.

“I offer ten thousand,” said Diego Sanchez.

“Fifteen,” came the immediate reply from the other side of the room. El recognized him as Alejandro Lopez, from Mexico City.

“Eighteen,” said Diego Sanchez.

And so it went. The price went up and up. Sands stood still. After that smirk in Sanchez’s direction, he showed no interest in the auction or the men shouting out increasingly large sums of money. Occasionally he swayed as though he might fall. Each time this happened, one of the suits beside him would push or pull him upright again. If he was angry or humiliated at being sold like a piece of meat, he did not show it. He did not, in fact, even seem to really understand what was going on. 

El had a morbid moment when he wondered what his own selling price would be, then decided that was a question he didn’t really want answered.

He knew he was lucky to be standing here. The casino suits must have learned Sands’ identity some time after letting El go. It was the only thing he could think of. Otherwise he knew he would be onstage too, sold to the cartel with the most money. He would be a prize, all right. Hell, the spectators would fill this room, and spill out into the hallway beyond, all of them wanting to see the great El Mariachi brought low.

In the end, the outcome was as he had expected. Diego Sanchez offered one hundred thousand pesos for Sands, and no one could match him. The auctioneer banged down his gavel, and the sale was final.

The suits started to escort Sands off the stage. The agent did not even lift his head. He just stumbled along between the firm hands of the suits, his normally graceful gait now a broken shuffle. Seeing him that way, El felt his anger begin to rise. All day he had successfully kept it in check, but now it fought his restraints, wanting to be turned loose.

Sanchez smiled coldly.

Some of the men in the back began filing out. El pushed himself off the wall, and strolled out of the room, following them.

****

Halfway around the building, one of Sanchez’s men tried to attack him. The man had hidden behind a trash dumpster, but El had known he was there right from the start. When the man jumped out at him, he was ready.

Twenty seconds, and it was done. The man was dead with a broken neck, and El now had a third gun.

He continued around the building, moving more cautiously now. Every step sent a stab of pain through one side of his chest, and he cursed under his breath. Killing the man had been satisfying, but now he had tasted blood. Now he wanted more.

The other three of Sanchez’s men had stopped in the alley behind the nightclub. A flight of stairs led below street level, down to the back door of the casino. Two pick-up trucks were parked back here, leaving again no doubt in El’s mind that Sanchez had known all along that he would win the auction.

A new man had joined the three from inside – obviously left out here to guard the vehicles. There made four men in total, each of them wearing guns. As El watched, one of them glanced over his shoulder, clearly expecting his companion to come around the corner and announce that the man who had followed them was dead. All of them looked alert, but no more so than any of the other alert men El had killed before.

A door opened from the casino. El was keeping to the shadows beside the building, so he could not see the door itself. All he saw was the spill of light from within, a split-second before it was blotted out by two figures. He heard shuffling footsteps, then the men came into view.

A suit, and Sands.

“Here you go,” said the suit. He chuckled. “Have fun.”

One of Sanchez’s men came forward and gripped Sands’ arm. “Shut the fuck up,” he said. He pulled the agent up the rest of the stairs. Sands came without protest, although El saw him bite his lip, in obvious pain. He stumbled and fell once to his knees, having to use his hands to break his fall.

The suit went back inside. The door clanged shut.

Sanchez’s man stopped at the top of the stairs. He gave Sands a shake. “We’re gonna take you to your new home, fucker. Hope you like it. It’s gonna be the last one you ever see.”

Sands just stood there for a moment. Then he looked up. “I _can’t_ see. Fucker.” He delivered this last word softly, almost conversationally.

The man holding him laughed derisively. “Yeah, whatever. Let’s go.”

It happened so fast El had trouble following it. One minute Sands was very still, the cartel man holding his arm. Then in the next, the man was doubled over, his hands clutching his bleeding throat, and the small, sharp rock protruding there. Sands brought his knee up sharply, his cuffed hands diving for the gun the man carried at his hip. Bone crunched as the man’s nose broke and his head snapped back, then he fell to the ground.

The other three men grabbed for their guns, then froze as Sands said, “Drop ‘em, boys.” He took a step to the side, the gun held in both hands.

Sanchez’s men stood where they were, too stunned to move.

It was time. El walked forward deliberately. Even if Sands had shown himself capable of taking down every one of these fuckers, El would not have let him. He was too pissed off. He wanted this moment.

With a twin snap of his wrists, the guns he had been hiding in his sleeves popped into his hands. He grinned, savagely enjoying the look of dismayed shock on the cartel members’ faces. “You heard him.” The broken fingers of his left hand did not want to hold the gun, but he made them do it anyway.

Slowly, a wide smile spread across Sands’ face. He was ghastly pale, and he looked like he might collapse at any moment, but there was no mistaking the pure joy in that smile. “El.”

“I am here,” El said. He did not take his eyes off the cartel members. All three of them were glaring alternately at him and Sands. None of them, however, had dropped their guns.

There they might have stood all night, except the back door of the casino opened again. That rectangle of light spilled outward a second time, and then two new shadows erased it.

The three cartel members all looked that way immediately. Sands took one large step backwards and to his left, trying to get out of the field of vision of the men at the bottom of the stairs. It was a good maneuver, but it was not enough.

“What the fuck is going on here?” demanded Diego Sanchez.

And suddenly everything went into motion.

The stairwell was bounded on street level by two concrete walls. They were chest-high on El, and they were clear of the street graffiti that usually found its way onto such structures. El ducked behind the nearest one now, on the right of the stairwell. His ribs protested loudly, and he gasped, “Sands!”

The agent did not hesitate. He ran forward, using El’s voice to guide him to the right spot.

Not a moment too soon. The cartel members opened fire, and bullets struck the concrete wall just as Sands slid around, coming to rest beside El.

El took in his too-pale complexion, and the fresh blood staining the bandage over his eye, and knew that Sands would not last long in a protracted fight. They had to end this quickly.

Apparently Sanchez’s men had no intention of drawing things out, either. They advanced as one, shooting the whole while. Bullets struck the top of the wall. Chips of concrete broke off and spattered El and Sands; gray dust settled in their hair.

“Christ,” Sands muttered. “Now what?”

“Now we shoot,” El said.

“I can live with that,” Sands said. He turned on his knees and reached up to prop the barrel of his gun on top of the wall while keeping his head ducked low. The action wrung a low groan from his throat, but he did not stop. He began to fire.

Immediately the cartel members scattered for cover. El rose smoothly and shot at them. He got one as the man tried to hide behind one of the pickup trucks, and winged another as he tried the same thing. The other man made it to the safety of the truck, however, and he began returning fire.

Strangely, no gunfire came from the stairwell, and Diego Sanchez and his man.

El dropped back down, his breath hissing through his teeth as pain speared through his chest.

For a moment silence ruled the night. Then El heard the sound of a door opening.

Sands heard it too. “Shit.”

The casino employees. Once the suits entered the fight, the odds would be overwhelmingly against them.

El peeked over the wall, saw the last cartel man reloading his gun, and made a quick decision. He grabbed Sands’ arm. “Let’s go.”

Sands flinched and uttered an involuntary cry, and El immediately changed his plan. He let go of the agent. “Cover me.”

He ran out from behind the safety of the wall. Behind the truck, the man had finished reloading his gun. On the ground near the rear wheels, the second man El had shot was feebly moving, trying to rise.

The man behind the truck saw El coming and fired. El stumbled as something struck him, but did not stop running. A split second later gunshots came from behind the wall as Sands sprayed the area with bullets, sending the suits back down the stairs, and making the man behind the truck dive for cover again. Through sheer chance, one bullet struck the man on the ground, and he went very still.

Then Sands ran out of ammunition.

It didn’t matter. El had reached the pickup truck. And he had three guns, all of which still had bullets in them. He opened the driver’s side door and climbed halfway in the truck. “Come on!” he shouted.

Sands reacted immediately. He ran toward the sound of El’s voice, staying low, still holding the empty gun.

From his angle, El could not hope to hit the man behind the second truck, but that was not his intention. All he wanted was to keep the man from being able to fire at them.

Sands reached the truck. El moved aside. “Get in. Look for the keys.”

“Very funny,” Sands snapped. But he wasted no time in climbing in the truck and pulling down the sun visors. A set of keys spilled out from the one over the driver’s seat, and El quickly folded himself into the truck, his breath catching on another gasp of pain.

The gun he had taken from Sanchez’s man was tucked in the waistband of his jeans. He reached for it now and tossed it at Sands. “Here.” He jammed the keys into the ignition and started the truck.

In the rearview mirror he saw the last cartel member step out from the safety of the second truck, and start firing at them. More men, all of them in dark suits, poured onto the street from the stairwell leading down to the casino. There was still no sign, however, of Diego Sanchez.

Sands rolled down the window, and leaned out. He twisted around so he was facing the back of the truck, and started firing. 

El floored it. The truck jolted forward, quickly leaving the casino behind. The street ended a block up, and El slowed for the turn, but only a little. Sanchez’s man started to get into the truck, and the last thing El saw in the mirror before he turned the corner was one of the casino suits stopping that man.

Then the truck rounded the corner, and he could see no more.

“Get in!” he shouted. “They’re behind us now.”

Sands slid back in through the window. “You’re out,” he said, and tossed the gun back at El.

“It’s not mine,” he said.

“I didn’t think it was.”

“Are you hit?”

“No. You?”

El nodded. “Yes.”

“Shit. Bad?”

“No.” He glanced at his arm. The wound hurt, but the pain was still dim. Later it would hurt like hell, but for now sheer nerves kept the worst of it at bay. “It’s not bad.”

“Get out of town, then we’ll stop,” Sands said.

El looked at him, and the blood on his face. If it was possible, Sands was even paler than he had been before. He held his cuffed hands to the side, so he could press his right arm to his chest. Blood trickled down his face from beneath the bandage, shining under the streetlights. “What did they do to you?” El demanded.

Sands gave him a sick smile. “It wasn’t them,” he said. “I did this.”

El was horrified. “What? Why? Why would you do that?”

“Control, El,” Sands said wearily. He let his head fall back to rest on the seat. “It’s all about control. Who has it.

“And who doesn’t. Anymore.”

El made a right turn onto the town’s main road. He glanced in the rearview mirror. No pursuit. He did not slow down. “What are you saying?”

“I am saying, El my dear friend, that all is quiet on the western front.” Sands’ smile changed, became less brittle and more genuine. “I’m saying, I won.”

“The voice,” El breathed.

“Is gone,” Sands said triumphantly.

It couldn’t be that easy, El thought. It just couldn’t. But he could not deny the wild hope that surged through him. Maybe it was that easy. Maybe for once, just once, they would catch a break.

“We’ll stop at the hotel and get the car,” he said. “Then we’ll see about getting those cuffs off.”

“That would be swell,” Sands said. His voice was fading. He was rapidly losing consciousness.

“Rest,” El said. His chest ached with every breath and the broken fingers of his left hand throbbed. The gunshot wound in his arm was beginning to sing with pain. But he had rarely felt so good.

They had done it again. Created a victory where there should have been none. And they were together again.

“El?” 

“Yeah?”

“Did they beat you up?”

He lied, “Only a little.”

“Fuckers.”

El said nothing to this. He felt ashamed of himself, that he would take advantage of Sands’ blindness this way, but what harm could it do? The man didn’t need to know how badly hurt he was.

“El?” Sands’ voice was little more than a whisper.

“What?”

“I’m glad you’re not dead.”

El blinked. He had no idea why Sands would say that. “So am I,” he ventured.

Sands did not hear this. He had finally passed out.

****

By the time they reached the hotel, El was beginning to worry he would succumb to unconsciousness himself. But there was no time to waste.

Before leaving the hotel earlier, he had packed their bags and put them in the trunk. So it was a simple matter to ditch the stolen truck and move to their car.

He had to help Sands out of the truck. The agent stumbled when his feet hit the pavement, and he cursed. “Where are we?”

“The hotel,” El said. “We are leaving town.”

“That,” Sands said wearily, “is an excellent idea.”

They walked around the car. The pain in El’s ribs made him hobble, and he found himself muttering furiously under his breath. When Sands had eased his way into the front seat, El straightened up with relief. He went over to his side and slid in, his jaw clenched against a groan.

“El?”

“What?”

“Don’t fucking lie to me.”

He flushed. “What?”

“I know you’re hurt worse than you said.” 

The reproach in Sands’ voice was more effective than if he had shouted or cursed. El dropped his head. “I’ll be fine.”

“Christ,” Sands said in disgust. “Look at us, El. What a pair we make.”

El started the car. “Vera Cruz?”

Sands lifted his left shoulder in a barely perceptible shrug. “Sure.”

“You need a doctor,” he ventured.

“So do you.”

El scowled. He had no intention of submitting himself to a doctor’s care, and he knew damn well that Sands felt the same.

He sighed. “Vera Cruz it is.”

“Vera Cruz,” Sands breathed.

He pulled out of the parking lot and onto the road. He had left some money on the pillow of his bed, enough to cover the cost of their stay. He hoped that would pacify the hotel management, but if not, well, what was one more group hunting them down?

They drove in silence for a while. Long enough for the bleeding to stop from El’s arm where he had been shot. Long enough for them to leave the town and Casino del Suerte behind.

“El?”

He jumped. He had thought Sands was asleep.

“What?”

“It’s not gone for good. It will be back.”

El thought about the desperation that had driven Sands to hurt himself so badly, all in an effort to battle the madness in his head. He could not imagine how Sands must have felt, to go to such lengths.

“I know,” he said. “And when that happens, we will fight it.”

“We,” Sands said, so quietly El could barely hear him.

“We,” El affirmed. He had no earthly idea how he could combat his friend’s insanity, but he had every intention of doing his best to help.

“Stop,” Sands said, his voice suddenly stronger. “Stop the car. Now.”

Thinking maybe he was going to be sick, El pulled over to the side of the road. It was dark out, and there were no streetlights along this stretch of blacktop. “Are you all right?”

“Shut up,” Sands said. “No talking.” He turned in his seat and scooted closer to El, ignoring the way the gearshift dug into his leg. He raised his cuffed hands, although El could see that it hurt him to do so.

With surprising gentleness, he touched El’s face.

El sat very still under this exploration. When Sands’ fingers found his bruises, he winced slightly, but he did not pull away.

An odd smile tugged at Sands’ mouth. “How could I have thought…?” he whispered.

El frowned. “Thought what?”

Sands hesitated, then he dropped his hands back to his lap. “Nothing,” he said. “I thought…nothing.”

El did not believe this, but he had no choice but to accept it. He put the car back in drive and started forward again.

*********

Chapter 17: Reacting

 

He woke to the sound of rain. This was so unexpected that for a long moment El just lay there, his brain functioning on only the most basic levels. He did not think anything at all.

Eventually he remembered he was not alone, and he turned his head.

Sands was asleep in a plush armchair situated between the far bed and the wall. He had obviously started curled up on the seat, but in slumber he had relaxed and now one foot hung off the cushion and his hands were lax in his lap. His breathing was slow and even, and his head hung low; El winced in sympathy at the thought of the neck cramp his friend would have when he woke.

But he could not deny he was glad to see Sands sleeping so soundly.

He turned his head the other way, so he could look at the digital clock atop the TV. He frowned at it for a moment before deciding that yes, the display was not showing anything.

He realized that the light in the room was very dim. The ceiling fans were not turning. Outside, the rain continued to fall, and at last El understood that the motel had lost electricity, probably due to the storm that had just moved through.

He sat up slowly, wincing as he did. His arm hurt, his chest hurt, and he had a headache. He was hungry and thirsty and his bladder was aching; but for all that, he felt better than he had in three days.

And he knew why. The man asleep in that armchair was the reason.

Moving stiffly, he scooted across the bed, and stood up. He reached across his body with his right hand and pulled his left arm close. His shirt was still on the floor where he had dropped it, and even in the dim light filtering in through the window it was easy to see the crude stitching on the gunshot wound in his upper arm. The stitches were not quite as crooked as the ones Carolina had made, but they were awfully close.

El smiled. _Not bad for a blind man_ , Sands had said last night.

 _Not bad at all_ , he had agreed.

He wondered what time it was. From the looks of things, they had slept through the remainder of the night, and well on into the afternoon.

He walked into the bathroom, noting that Sands did not even flinch as El went past him. This was good. The needle marks on his neck and arm were blatantly obvious, and Sands himself had admitted to spending most of the last two days unconscious, but drugs were no substitute for real sleep.

A cracked mirror hung over the toilet, and El peered into it as he did his business. It was even darker in the bathroom, but the lack of light didn’t begin to account for the fact that he almost didn’t recognize the face that stared back. The bruises there were just beginning to fade, and his lower lip was still cut and scabbed. His hair was a bedraggled mess, part of it still pulled back into a ponytail, the rest hanging in clumps about his shoulders. A smear of blood ran across his forehead, and El touched it curiously. He wondered if it was his blood, or Sands’.

He washed his face and hands, patted them dry with the towel -- taking special care with his broken fingers -- and stepped out into the room again.

Just in time to hear the dry click as Sands cocked the gun he was aiming at the bathroom.

“It’s just me,” El said.

Immediately Sands thumbed the hammer back. “Good.” He slumped in the armchair. El had put a fresh bandage over his eye last night, and he was relieved to see no blood marring its white surface today. “Is that really rain?”

“It is,” El said. “This time of year, it comes off the Gulf.”

Sands nodded, but said nothing.

El sat on the bed and looked around.

The motel was cheap, but clean. It reminded him strongly of the motel he had stayed at in Acuña, where everything had started all those years ago. Two twin beds were separated by the nightstand, and a long, low dresser stood opposite the beds. The armchair and carpet were the same ugly olive green shade, and the table near the door was of fake wood. 

The room was a mess. Last night had been about doctoring, about hacksaws and handcuffs, blood and bandages. An open bottle of strong painkillers sat on the nightstand, the cotton that had been stuffed into the top of the bottle strewn carelessly on the floor. Also on the floor were the handcuffs, two pairs of boots, El’s shirt, a spool of mostly unraveled fishing line, two empty bottles of tequila, wads of bloody gauze, and the remote control for the TV.

“Well,” he said, and then stopped. He really could think of nothing to say.

Sands just nodded. He had tipped his head back, and he grimaced as he stretched his cramped neck muscles.

“What are you doing over there?” El asked. The second bed had not even been turned down.

“Hell if I know,” Sands said. “I seem to recall thinking I would just sit down for a moment, and then...good morning, sunshine.”

“Actually I’m pretty sure it’s afternoon,” El said.

“Whatever,” Sands said.

“The power is out,” he explained. “So I am not sure.”

Sands just shrugged, lifting only his left shoulder.

“You should see a doctor,” El said, knowing he was wasting his breath.

“I’ll be fine,” Sands said, so predictable in his response that El was able to mouth the words along with him.

El nodded. Maybe it was sick, but he admired the cause for Sands’ shoulder injury. He would never have been able to do it himself – his hips were just too broad. Only Sands, slender as he was, could have done that trick with the handcuffs.

Sands shifted in the armchair so he was more or less sitting up straight. “Okay, here’s the thing, El. And I need to say this now, before it’s too late.”

“What do you mean, too late?” El asked. The words sounded so ominous.

“Now is a good time,” Sands said. “It’s raining, we have no power, no one has said ‘I’m hungry’ or anything stupid like that. It’s not too late yet, savvy?”

Not at all sure he savvied, El nodded. “All right.”

“The thing is.” Sands took a deep breath. “The thing is, El, back there, in that casino, I thought I killed you. I was so sure of it. And I...I couldn’t bear it. It was...” His voice trailed off.

“Terrible,” he whispered. “It was terrible.”

El frowned. He could not think why Sands would have believed such a thing.

“His face... I thought it was you, do you understand? I thought I had killed you, with my own stupidity, my own fucked-up fears. And I couldn’t... Ah, shit.” Sands shook his head sharply, clearly frustrated with his inability to articulate what he meant. He stood up and began walking across the room, his hand before him to feel out the way.

El made it easy for him. He stood up and moved so he was directly in front of Sands.

“And I wanted...” Sands gave a short laugh, the kind of laugh that a man made when he couldn’t believe what he had just done. “I wanted so many things. But mostly I just wanted to do this again.”

With his left hand he reached up and drew El’s head down, and he kissed El.

In all the time they had been together, he had never kissed El like that. That kiss stole El’s breath. It was gentle and it was shy, and yet it was territorial and confident. It was the kind of kiss one person gave another when they knew where they belonged, when they had found their home.

Sands drew back, but his palm remained on El’s cheek. “Do you understand?” he breathed. “Can you?”

El could only think of one response.

He kissed Sands back.

****

Sometime later, he said, “Why did you think you had killed me?” He thought maybe it was a metaphor, that Sands had believed him to be captured by the casino suits all that time.

So he was shocked when Sands told him about the man and the dagger. “They took the dagger from me. It’s lost,” Sands concluded.

They were in bed, but not quite touching. El stared up at the ceiling and swallowed hard. He knew the horror that came from realizing you had just gotten a friend killed, but he had never been personally involved in any such murder. He could not imagine how it felt to believe that yours was the hand that had taken that life.

“It doesn’t matter,” he finally said. “The dagger was never important.”

Sands sat up, propping himself on one elbow. “It matters to me,” he said, his tone somehow managing to be both deliberately cold and heatedly urgent at the same time.

“Then we’ll go back and get it,” El said. It was a simple decision to make, and he made it without hesitation.

Mollified, Sands lay back down.

“Not now, though,” El said. “We rest, first.”

**** 

They slept.

When he woke, it was dark outside, dark in the room. Thin orange light filtered in through the curtains from out in the parking lot. Sands was sitting on the other bed, leaning against the headboard, one knee up, the other leg stretched before him. He was naked, and he was smoking. “We’re going to have to do something about that wheezing, El. You drive me fucking crazy.” He exhaled a long plume of smoke into the air.

El stared. Sands was just a silhouette in the dim light, but even so, he was beautiful. The lines of his body were so clean, so graceful. Shortly after their first arrival in Vera Cruz he had cut his hair shorter, and it fell to his jawline, except for where one lock fell across his cheek. El had an overpowering urge to get up and kiss the place where that hair lay, but he made himself lie still, and just watch.

“El? You awake?”

He cleared his throat of sleep and sat up. “I’m awake.”

“Ask me a question.”

He frowned. “What?”

“You heard me.”

“What do you want me to ask?”

“Anything,” Sands said. He shrugged, using only his left shoulder. “I just...” He shook his head, making the lock of hair tremble. “I feel like talking. So ask me a question.”

So El said, “Why did you do it?”

Sands did not pretend to misunderstand him. “I had to.” He finished his cigarette and stubbed it out on the ashtray sitting beside him on the mattress. He reached up and raked the hair out of his face, with the resulting effect of the same lock falling down again, now joined by two others.

“Why?” El asked. The ceiling fan pushed cool air against his chest. “Why did you have to?”

“It was the only way,” Sands said faintly. He was not wearing his sunglasses, and in the shadowy light, the hollow where his left eye had been was just a darker shadow, looking not too much different than if he had still been sighted.

“Did it work?” El asked, remembering what Sands had said in the truck. _I’m saying, I won._

“For the time being,” Sands said. He smiled, just a quick thinning of his lips. “Don’t worry, El. I’m still insane. Still the same psychotic asshole you know and love.”

The room went so quiet El could hear the hum of the night insects outside in the parking lot.

 _Did_ he love Sands? He didn’t know, and now was hardly the time to find out.

He tried to think of something to say, something clever, something to show he didn’t hold Sands’ blunder against him. But his brain didn’t seem to want to work. He could think of nothing.

“And I mean that figuratively, of course,” Sands said dryly.

Grateful for the reprieve, El croaked, “Of course.”

And was it his imagination, or did Sands’ shoulders slump a little?

But he must have been mistaken, because in the next instant Sands was getting off the bed, absently brushing the hair off his face again. “Well,” he drawled, “of course I can’t see it, but I felt all the shit on the floor when I walked over here, and I don’t think housekeeping is going to be very happy with us tomorrow.” To prove his point, he kicked El’s shirt out of the way. “I say we pick this shit up and get the hell out of here.”

“Where?” El asked.

“Anywhere but here,” Sands said.

El had no problem with that.

****

They went to Cozumel, stopping at dawn to eat breakfast. When they arrived on the island they checked into a Holiday Inn. Very normal, very American.

As they were walking down the hall to their room, a man and his wife turned the corner. The man was blond, and he wore a big cowboy hat and brown leather boots under his jeans. The whole outfit was so reminiscent of what Sands had worn on the day El had met him that the mariachi couldn’t help laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Sands demanded.

“Oh nothing,” El said. “You had to see it.”

“Fuck you,” Sands said reflexively.

Their room was on the eighth floor. Every morning they went down to the beach. In the afternoon they returned to the hotel room and slept and sometimes had sex. At night they either went back to the beach or went out to the many clubs and bars Cozumel had to offer. Still later they would return again to their room and spend most of the night finding new ways to torment each other.

They spent three weeks in Cozumel. They got tan, healthy, and bored. They drank a lot, and they ate a lot; Sands teased him that he was getting a potbelly, and El could not deny it.

In Cozumel, they broke the Rules. Not all of them, of course, because some things would never change, but some of them. Enough of them to give El hope. They could talk about what they were doing now. He could tease Sands to “just you wait until tonight,” and not wince. He could touch Sands now without having to ask, and Sands would not flinch. A few mornings he woke up with Sands’ dark head resting on his chest, and then he lay perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe for the hope that filled him.

One night, sitting on the beach, stars glittering over his head as he watched the tide come in, El found himself wondering if he was even really here. Maybe he was just dreaming all this. Certainly it did not seem real.

Sands sat beside him, leaning back on his hands behind him, bare toes buried in the sand. The sea breeze lifted the hair off his neck, and fluttered the silk of the black blindfold tied about his eyes. A small, enigmatic smile curled his lips. He looked utterly content.

El smiled, and returned his gaze to the incoming waves. Two years ago if anyone had told him he would be sitting here, experiencing this moment, he would have just laughed. He thought briefly about rising to his feet, scooping Sands into his arms, ignoring the agent’s protests. Striding down to the water, until the waves lapped at his knees. Dropping Sands in the water. Watching him splutter and holler. Getting into a splashing contest. Playing in the ocean like kids.

It would be fun, but he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t take the chance. If the salt water got in Sands’ eyesockets, he would be in agony. El could not risk such a thing, not for a weak joke.

So he simply sat there, with the water and the stars, and his friend.

There were only two bad times during those lazy Cozumel days. One night Sands, who rarely slept peacefully anyway, had a nightmare that left him screaming and shivering. When he woke, he would not let El comfort him, or hold him. That was a long night.

The other bad time was El’s fault.

One night he woke to find Sands standing on the balcony. Naked. Smoking. He walked up. “Have you no shame?”

“Apparently not,” Sands smirked.

“They have laws here against public indecency,” he said. “That makes you a criminal.”

“Guess so,” Sands drawled. He stubbed the cigarette out on the stucco wall.

El put his arms about Sands, gripping the wrist of his left hand with his right at the small of Sands’ back. He began walking backward into the bedroom, taking Sands with him. “That’s it,” he said in a low voice. He nipped at Sands’ bottom lip. “You’ve broken the law. You’ve been very bad. Come with me.”

The smile curdled on Sands’ face. “No,” he said.

El continued to walk backward. “You’ve been bad,” he said. “Time to face the consequences.”

“No!” Sands twisted free from his arms and backpedaled across the balcony until the wrought-iron railing touched his back. He had gone very pale, and he was trembling. “I’m not. Don’t.”

So that was how El learned yet one more detail about the horrible summer Sands had lost his sanity. And he added another rule to the list: Never talk about things like punishments, or being bad. He did not mind. So many of the rules had been broken during these past few weeks that adding a new one was not hard.

But that was the worst of it. There were many more good times.

The best thing, by far, was the silence. Not once in those three weeks did Sands hear the voice in his head. Sands did not tell him this, but El knew it was true. After all this time, he knew the warning signs. The agent would be talking normally, then his speech would falter, or break off entirely; and when he next spoke he would sound harsh or cold or bitter. He would rub his temple sometimes, a completely unconscious gesture El was pretty sure Sands wasn’t even aware he made.

But in Cozumel, there was none of that. No muttered conversations, no headaches, no nothing. Just silence.

And then there was laughter.

Like the morning they were on the elevator going up to their room, and the woman got on at floor three. She was American, beautiful, and very arrogant. She was talking on a cell phone, berating the person at the other end.

When the elevator reached the eighth floor, the doors opened. El walked out. Sands brushed past the lady, deliberately bumping into her. “Excuse me, sugarbutt.”

The lady drew herself up stiffly. “What did you call me?” she demanded.

The elevator doors shut behind them. Sands made it two steps down the hall and exploded with laughter. 

The rest of that day El kept thinking of that moment with a sort of awe. But over the weeks he heard that laughter more often, and he became used to it. 

They laughed a lot. At things on the TV, at shared jokes, at the stupidity of the American tourists all around them. Sands had an infectious, young-sounding laugh, and El never tired of hearing it. If he hadn’t known such a plan would backfire, he would have gone out of his way to be funny and make Sands laugh. As it turned out he need not have bothered -- there was plenty of laughter during those three weeks in Cozumel.

But, like all things, the laughter had to come to an end.

****

It was a newspaper headline that did it. El saw it on the front page of a paper being read by a businessman sitting in the hotel lobby. “Cartel Blamed for Death of Woman.”

Cartel.

They had been given three weeks, but now the idyll was over. Reality could not be ignored any longer.

He could not eat his lunch. He pushed the food around on his plate and finally gave up. “We have to go back,” he said.

Sands stiffened. That simple gesture told El quite clearly that Sands had not been thinking of leaving Cozumel any time soon. He was rather relieved by this, but saddened, too. He had half-expected Sands to say that it was about time he figured it out. But the truth, it seemed, was that Sands wanted to stay here. He did not want to leave.

But he knew it had to be done. “Yeah. Today?”

 _Tomorrow_ , El wanted to say. But if they waited, tomorrow there would be another reason to stay. There would always be a reason to stay. The only way to do it was to leave now.

“Yes,” he said.

“I was afraid you were going to say that,” Sands said. He took a deep breath, and in that moment he changed. The laughter and easy banter was gone. In its place was the cold strength that had kept him alive all these years. “Then let’s go.”

****

El was miserable. He could not remember the last time he had felt this way. The happiness of the last three weeks only made his misery that much keener.

He stared around the hotel room as they packed. He had not had the chance to play his guitar here; his healing fingers had not allowed it. Suddenly that fact seemed very sad, almost enough to move him to tears.

So he blamed that sadness for what he said next. “We should leave Mexico.”

“I’m not leaving,” Sands said. He was standing by the double doors leading to the balcony.

El ignored this. They could not stay. Mexico was no good. America was no good. “We’ll go to Canada or--”

“Yeah, right.”

“Or Argentina, or--”

“I don’t think so.”

“We cannot stay,” El said firmly, thinking of that newspaper headline. “They will always find us.”

“You mean, they will always find me,” Sands said. He did not sound bitter. He just sounded resigned. “You blend right in. Not so much me. You should ditch me.”

“No,” El said. “There is no us, without you.”

A strange expression crossed Sands’ face. For a moment El thought he might cry. Then he said, “I’m not leaving Mexico, or Culiacan.”

“Why?” El demanded. “Why would you stay?”

And then Sands said the one word El could not argue with, the one word that changed everything.

“Chiclet.”

Sands raised his chin in stubborn defiance. “I won’t leave Chiclet.”

El felt himself shrink. He had not thought about the boy in weeks. It was a shaming realization.

But he had to keep trying. It was wrong to go back. He was sure of it. “We can’t go back. They’ll be expecting us.” Diego Sanchez had deliberately kept out of the firefight behind Casino del Suerte. El was pretty sure he knew the reason why. “The moment we return, they will know. They will be waiting for us.”

“Probably have the house staked out,” Sands agreed. His tone said he had no problem with this.

The house. El felt the blood drain from his face. He tried to speak and only managed a hoarse croaking noise.

And Sands, damn him, had one of those moments of intuition where he seemed to read El’s mind. “The house,” he said. “They’re at the house. Oh God, El, tell me Chiclet isn’t at the house too.”

El said nothing. All he could think of was what he had asked Chiclet. _And you’ll look after the house for us?_

“Jesus Christ, El!” Sands shouted. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“I didn’t know,” he said helplessly. “How could I know?”

Sands shook his head in disgust. “For Christ’s sake, El. Use your head!” His expression narrowed, and El suddenly realized that he was utterly furious. “If they hurt him...” He trailed off, but El knew the rest of that sentence had been a dire threat aimed at himself.

He just nodded. There was nothing he could say. He had fucked up, and he knew it.

****

They were on the road within half an hour. They made the drive in complete silence. El spoke only once, to say that he intended to stop in Mexico City for the night.

Sands said nothing.

So it was a complete surprise then, to feel Sands’ hand on his thigh, when they were still half an hour out of the city. El caught his breath. Sands moved his hand over, and smirked as he felt the bulge in El’s jeans.

“What are you doing?” El asked.

“Making sure you’ll be horny when we get to the hotel,” Sands said. He applied pressure with his hand, and El shivered.

“That,” he said dryly, “will not be a problem.”

****

There was a strain of violence to their movements that night. Sands bit him on the shoulder, and El, his hand moving in involuntary reaction to the pain, struck him across the face.

Shocked silence descended. El cringed.

Then Sands grinned. “Well. If that’s how you want it.”

When they finally fell asleep near dawn, they were sweaty and bruised, but very content.

****

An hour away from Culiacan, El slowed down. He was hoping to spot the cartel’s spies. He passed a police car sitting on the side of the road, ostensibly waiting to trap speeders, but El stared at the cop inside mistrustfully. You just never knew. Maybe that was a real cop, and maybe it was a real cop on the cartel’s payroll, and maybe it was just a cartel man.

In the village, everyone seemed to be staring at them. But few people waved. No one smiled. El felt a knot of tension settle in his belly. Had Sanchez’s men been terrorizing these people as punishment for taking in El Mariachi and the American spy?

“Go to Chiclet’s house,” Sands said. He had been silent all morning; this was the first thing he had said. “I want to make sure he’s all right.”

El did not disagree. He stopped the car in front of the boy’s house. As he turned off the engine, the front door opened and Chiclet’s mother stepped out. She waved, but she did not look happy to see him. “He’s at the house!” she called.

“Fuck,” Sands swore loudly.

El winced. He raised his hand and started the car up again. “What do we do now?”

“What the hell do you mean?” Sands demanded. “We’re going up there.”

“That is what they want us to do,” El said. He did not put the car in drive. “If we return to the house we will be walking into their trap.”

“Go,” Sands said quietly. “Stop along the road. About half a mile away.”

“I love him too,” El said. It hurt his heart to think of that brave boy in the hands of someone like Diego Sanchez. “But this is not the way. We have to come up with a plan first.”

Sands said nothing to this. He just bowed his head. His hands clenched into fists in his lap. He exuded such silent frustration that El could not bear to look at him.

El scowled. But he put the car in gear and began driving through the village. “This is a very bad idea.”

Sands did not reply to this.

Slowly El made his way up the road that led to his house. Not his house, though, not really. First it had belonged to Jorge Ramirez, and now it belonged to Sands. He only lived there on Sands’ sufferance.

 _No_ , he thought. _I live there. It is my home._

And suddenly the thought of his home being under attack – yet again – filled him with rage. For many long years he had been on the run, enduring the loss of his latest home with stoicism, but he had had enough. He was not going to run anymore, and he was not going to let them take another home from him.

_And Chiclet. If they’ve hurt him, I’ll kill every last one of them. Starting with Sanchez._

If there were men lying in wait along the road, El did not see them. Not that they were necessary. A man in sunglasses had been sitting at the cantina, sipping a beer at one of the outside tables. As El had driven past, the man had pulled out a cell phone.

Sanchez knew they were coming.

With half a mile to go, he pulled over and stopped the car. He had walked this road so many times, on his way to market, to town, to visit Chiclet, to make confession at the church. Today, he reflected, might be the last time he ever walked it.

He started to open his door, and Sands put a hand on his arm. “Wait.”

“What is it?” He turned to face Sands.

The agent looked surprisingly somber. “I told you once that I would take my meaning in life wherever I could find it. Do you remember that?”

El did. They had both said it, in the hotel room where they had begun being honest with each other, where the trust had begun.

Sands leaned over and kissed him, fumbling at first to find his mouth. It was a sweet kiss, entirely at odds with his cold expression.

“What was that for?” El asked, his heart beating fast.

“I have found my meaning,” Sands said. He did not smile.

El frowned. If this was true, why didn’t Sands look at least a little happy about it?

“And I’m sorry,” Sands continued, “but that’s the reason I can’t let you come with me.”

His fist caught El in the jaw, snapping the mariachi’s head back. Sharp pain splintered through El’s head. Then Sands hit him again, and there was nothing.

Only darkness.

*********

Chapter 18: Sacrificing

 

_I have found my meaning._

True. So very true.

_And I’m sorry, but that’s the reason I can’t let you come with me._

El was going to be really pissed. Well, that was just too damn bad. But he couldn’t do it. He could not let El deliberately walk into danger. Not when El was that fabled meaning.

El and Chiclet. They were all he had to live for. They had done so much for him. Now it was his turn.

A soft chuckle escaped him as he got out of the car. Who would have thought? Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, learning about self-sacrifice at this late date. Ladies and gentlemen, maybe there’s hope for our poor fucked-up boy after all.

It took some doing to get El’s limp body out of the car and into the ditch at the side of the road. Then he had to tramp along until he found a suitably large branch to cover the mariachi with. By the time this was done, he was sweating, and his hands were shaking.

Holy shit, was he really going to do this?

He started walking up the road. And by God, it seemed he really was doing this.

Because he had realized something after leaving Cozumel. Well, two things, really.

The first was that he would do anything to keep Chiclet safe. And if things were indeed too late, and the boy was already in the cartel’s clutches, then he would do whatever it took to free him.

The second was that he could not expose El to Diego Sanchez. El, who had braved a casino full of cartel in order to save him. The cartels wanted El more than they wanted him. He knew this. El knew this. Yet still El had come for him.

And El had gotten lucky once, but that was no guarantee it would happen again. If El walked up to that house, bold as brass, he would be dead before setting foot on the property.

Sands could not let that happen. He _would_ not let that happen.

He walked along the road. Normally when he walked into town and back, he knew exactly where he was at all times. He counted steps, and he listened to the changing sounds of the world around him. Not so today. He wasn’t sure how far back El had pulled the car over, and how far he would have to walk before someone spotted him.

That was all right. He trusted the cartel to find him first.

“Hey,” he whispered. “You in there?”

There was no response. The voice in his head was quiet.

He nodded. That was all right. He had been prepared to make a pact with the voice – you help me and I’ll help you – but it was just as well that it was still silent. He didn’t need it, after all. The truce had just been Plan B. It was better this way, that he did this alone.

Life was really funny sometimes. Like how it had taken him thirty-five years to figure out just who the voice was.

_I’m you!_

Yes indeed. And why was the voice strong and clever and brave?

Why, because _he_ was all those things.

The voice wasn’t afraid to take action, because he wasn’t. The voice knew how to manipulate people because he knew how. On its own the voice didn’t know anything. It was just a mouthpiece.

Just a voice.

 _You want to be careful though_ , he thought. _Thinking like that is apt to get you in trouble. It’s a lot more than just a voice and you know it._

Yes, yes he did know it. And when the madness came back, as he knew it would, it would be horrible. There would be a battle for his mind that day, and the prize would be his sanity. To lose that battle would be to lose everything.

But hopefully that day was still far in the future. He felt confident that it was. Right now he was firmly in control. There was no chance for the voice to come back. The real danger would come if he allowed himself to lose control.

Or if that control was taken from him.

“Nope,” he whispered. “Not gonna happen.”

But he wondered who he was kidding. He was walking unarmed into an ambush of cartel – he had left his guns with El, on the hope that El would see them and understand what he had done. Did he really think he was going to come out of this all right?

A shout went up. The first of the lookouts had seen him. “Hands in the air!”

Footsteps hurried forward. Guns were cocked. He stopped walking and raised his hands, unable to keep from smirking. It was kind of funny, really.

“Don’t move, asshole,” someone ordered.

Rough hands jerked his arms behind him and cuffed his wrists. Thick meaty fingers encircled his upper arm and dragged him forward. He fought the urge to pull away from the unwanted touch. El could touch him now, but that was because he knew El wouldn’t hurt him. He had no such guarantees with these guys – in fact, they probably couldn’t wait to hurt him.

“How ya boys doing?” he asked brightly.

A hand whapped the back of his head. Not hard. Just enough to remind him who was in charge.

They walked him the rest of the way. Down the road, up the driveway, toward the house. One man holding him, another walking close by. He began to hear voices, shuffling footsteps, fabric rustling, guns. There were many men on the front yard, he realized. More on the porch.

And from the porch, another voice. This one younger, scared. Cut off almost immediately.

Chiclet.

“Agente Arenas,” said Diego Sanchez, using the Spanish translation of his name.

He said, “It’s Sands, fuckmook.”

“So it is,” Diego Sanchez said.

He heard Chiclet again, muffled. Either they had gagged the kid, or someone had a hand over his mouth. “Let the kid go.”

A surprised murmur ran through the yard. How did he know? they all wondered. Wasn’t he supposed to be blind?

He smiled thinly. “Let him go, Sanchez.”

“You are in no position to be making demands,” said Diego Sanchez.

“Too bad,” Sands said. “I’m making one anyway. Let the kid go, or this is going to turn ugly.”

Another murmur went through the men. Was he alone? Were they surrounded right now? He imagined them looking around uneasily, peering at the bushes, eyeing the road, waiting for an attack. He liked those images, very much.

“I think you are making an empty threat,” Diego Sanchez said. “Do you know why I think this? Because I know you arrived here with only the mariachi. Where is he now?”

Sands shrugged. “The damnedest thing. That cowardly fucker. He didn’t want any part of this. He let me out and kept right on driving. He’s probably halfway to the coast by now.”

Diego Sanchez made a sound of patent disbelief. “And so you are alone,” he said. “You come walking up here, so bold. I must ask, why? You knew we were here.”

“I knew,” Sands said. “And you know why I’m here. He’s standing on my porch. And if any of your goons have hurt him, I _will_ kill you.”

“You surprise me, Agent Sands,” said Sanchez. “The stories about you speak of a cold-blooded killer. Yet here you are, for the sake of a child.”

He said nothing. They would not understand. Hell, he barely understood it himself. All he knew was that the very thought of any of those fuckers laying a hand on Chiclet made his blood boil. It wasn’t allowed. It just was not allowed.

“Where is El Mariachi?” asked Sanchez.

“Here’s the deal,” Sands said, ignoring the question. In truth, he was getting very sick of being asked that. It seemed like ever since El had hauled him out of Ramirez’s house, there had always been someone asking him that. El Mariachi, El Mariachi. To listen to them, you’d think the cartels didn’t have anything better to do with their time than hunt for El Mariachi.

“You are going to let the boy go free. He is going to walk out of here, down the driveway, and back to his home. You are going to leave the people of this village alone. You are going to forget you ever heard about El Mariachi, and you are most definitely going to stop hunting him. Savvy?”

Stunned silence met this pronouncement. A few of the men standing in the yard snickered. Finally Diego Sanchez said, not without some amusement, “And why will I do these things?”

“Because if you do,” Sands said, “I promise to go with you. Quietly. No fuss. And you can do whatever you want with me.”

From on the porch, he heard a desperate, muffled cry.

_Relax, Chiclet. I know what I’m doing._

And the strange thing was that he did. Two years ago he could never have even imagined himself doing it. One year ago he could have conceived of the idea, but been unable to carry it out. But things were different now. He could do it now.

He meant to do it.

“Rest assured, Agent Sands, that I _will_ do what I want with you,” Sanchez said. He did not sound amused now.

“But that only happens if you let the boy go,” Sands said.

“I could just shoot you now,” Diego Sanchez said.

“You could,” Sands said with a shrug. He felt the old excitement stirring in his blood. He had won. The game wasn’t even over yet, and he had already won. “But then you wouldn’t be getting your money’s worth, would you?”

In the silence that followed he could almost hear Sanchez’s rage. He braced himself for a blow, but none came.

“Pedro.” Sanchez kept his voice very steady. “Take the boy to his house.”

Sands allowed himself a thin smile. “I knew you’d see things my way.”

Footsteps crossed the yard, coming toward him. That would be Diego Sanchez. Again he tensed, waiting for a blow.

He became aware that the man holding his arm was standing close. Very close. An unwanted tendril of fear slid into his belly. 

_Don’t_ , he told himself. _Don’t. Don’t. Freak. Out._

If he panicked, if he lost control, the voice would come back. He had to stay in control.

He cleared his throat. “So. Diego my man. You’re not going to...ah...molest me now, are you?” He strove to sound casual, as if the question was of no consequence.

Sanchez let out an unamused laugh. He was much closer now. “No, Agent Sands. I can assure you that neither I nor my men are interested in your ass.”

“Well, that’s good to know.” He slumped a little in relief. But not too much. If they saw how relieved he was, they would rape him just on general principle. And then he really _would_ lose his mind.

Sanchez continued, “We are more interested in hearing you scream.”

Sands nodded. “Again, good to know,” he drawled.

The footsteps stopped just in front of him. “The mariachi,” said Diego Sanchez. “You are protecting him.”

“If you say so,” Sands said, shrugging again, as if he had no interest in questions about life or death. Then he suddenly realized that he had not heard the sounds of anyone leaving the front porch yet. That guy Pedro was still standing there, holding Chiclet hostage. Shit. This was not good.

“Would you trade your life for his?”

Sands thought about this. His life wasn’t worth much -- no one would say otherwise -- but he thought it might be worth enough to save El.

He hoped it was, at any rate.

“Yes.”

Sanchez leaned in; he could suddenly smell tequila and sandalwood. “I accept your offer. You are going to die, Agent Sands.”

He stood a little straighter, pulling his arm free of the man holding him. He lifted his chin defiantly. He wondered if it would be a bullet in the head, or the chest. Maybe the gut, so they could watch him bleed to death. He didn’t really care about dying, but he did regret that it would have to happen in front of Chiclet.

“Oh, not now,” Sanchez said. “No, it is going to take some time. You are going to die slowly, Agent Sands. Painfully. One death for every one of my men you have killed. Starting with Ramon Escalante.”

This was unexpected. He gave a start. “Escalante?”

“He was my brother,” Sanchez said. “Through marriage only, but still my brother, in all ways that mattered.” He eased closer and pulled Sands’ sunglasses off.

The men in the yard gasped and muttered to themselves. A few swore. A few laughed.

“I was not there the day Armando took your eyes, but Ramon was. Often he described it to me.” Sanchez’s voice dropped to a confiding note. “The way you screamed.”

Sands gritted his teeth. The thought of all those men staring at him and the empty holes in his face made him want to scream with rage and then bash their heads in. He hated being stared at. He hated that they could all see his weakness, the maddening reason he was standing here today, offering himself to them like a fucking sacrificial lamb. _If I had my eyes, you fucker, if I could see you, you think we’d be standing here like this? You would already be dead._

“I will hear those screams again,” Sanchez said. “Before I allow you to die for good, you will beg me a hundred times over for death.”

“I see,” he said carefully, unable to help it; the words just slipped out. Then, with sudden cheer he asked, “Did Ramon” – he rolled the “r” zestfully – “also tell you I was insane?” He grinned.

“He did not need to,” Sanchez said. “We knew, even before the coup. It was in the letter.”

His grin slipped a little. “The letter?”

“The letter telling us about you. I see you did not know about this.”

“No,” he said faintly. A letter. Oh Christ.

“A woman wrote it. She claimed to be former CIA. She told us about you, and warned us that you intended to steal the money meant for General Marquez. Because of this letter, Barillo had his daughter earn your trust, so we could learn your plan. That is how we knew what you were up to, Agent Sands. Why we were able to take you. And your eyes.”

Sands thought he was going to be sick. A letter. Written by a woman. It had to have been Belinda Harrison. And how clever of her to claim to be _former_ CIA, the better to make sure Barillo believed her. On the day she had come to the house and finally revealed her own insanity, he had guessed that she had set him up, but it had been only a guess. He hadn’t known for sure.

Now he knew differently.

A letter. Bel “That Bitch” Harrison had been big on keeping evidence. Which meant she would have kept a copy of the letter.

Which meant El knew. Because El would surely have found the letter at Belinda’s house in the village on that day, the day of the hurricane, the day Sands had killed her.

El had known. And El had never told him.

Cold fury swept through him. He had never felt so betrayed in all his life. No, not even when Ajedrez had sat down across from him at that cafe. He had no secrets left from El, but by God, El had seen fit to keep secrets from him. What about all that talk of trust? Apparently it had been just that – only talk.

He grinned, a hard, humorless grin. “Fucked again. Good ol’ Bel.”

Sanchez either didn’t get it, or chose not to. “Yes, I would say you are fucked, Agent Sands.”

The tone of his voice changed when it got to his name. Sands tensed, but of course there was nothing he could do. The gun butt struck the back of his head, and he was falling, falling into a black far deeper than blindness.

The last thing he heard was Chiclet calling his name.

****

He came to once, to find himself bouncing along in the trunk of a car. His hands were still cuffed behind him. His head throbbed, and his stomach churned unhappily. “Oh, very original,” he muttered.

A fresh twinge of pain shot across his skull, a bit apologetically, as if to say it was sorry things had to be this way.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” he sighed. 

He wondered how long of a drive it was to his new home. The last home he would ever know.

****

He did not struggle when they came to get him out, but one of Sanchez’s men was overzealous, and hit him as he stumbled over the back fender of the car.

Immediately he slumped, the world going fuzzy and dim. He could still hear, but everything sounded very faraway and distant. He could not move to help himself as two men propelled him forward. He knew when they went inside because the warmth of the sun was suddenly gone, but that was all he could tell. They could have been at a nuclear-weapons factory or a two-bedroom house for all he knew.

By the time the forward motion stopped, however, his head was clearing. He was even able to stumble along under his own power for the last few steps. Then they jerked him to a halt and he stood still, swaying a little, praying he wasn’t going to vomit the first time he opened his mouth to say something.

“I would welcome you to my home,” Diego Sanchez said, “but I only offer a welcome to my guests. And you are not a guest.”

Sands risked a nod, and wished he hadn’t as pain shot through his head. “What do you call people like me?” he asked in a low voice, pleased that the words came out just fine, and just the words, thank god. “Prisoner? Captive? Hostage?”

“Muerto,” Diego Sanchez said harshly.

_Dead._

“Ah.” Sands nodded again.

He thought they were in an office. The kind a businessman had in his house. The room was fairly warm, which meant a lot of windows. Sanchez sounded like he was sitting down – behind a mahogany desk, no doubt. The two men who had escorted him here stood on either side of him, not touching him now, but close enough that if he swayed just a degree to the left or right, he could feel the fabric of their sleeves.

“So,” he said. “Guy like you. Probably starts out running, am I right? Making deliveries, proving you can be trusted. Then you get to know the big kahunas, and they start trusting you with more. You learn things. You stop running and now you direct the guys doing the deliveries. Am I right?”

“What do you want?” Sanchez asked. The clipped way he answered told Sands that oh yeah, he had gotten it right.

He was not surprised. He had never yet met a guy he couldn’t figure out.

“I want to make you a deal,” he said.

“You have already made a deal,” Sanchez said coldly. “I am afraid that is the limit of my goodwill.”

“But you haven’t heard what I’m about to say,” Sands said.

Diego Sanchez sighed. “You are trying my patience, Agent Sands. And when I am impatient, I get angry. And when I am angry, I find that often only the screams of my enemies puts me in a better mood.”

“A man after my own heart,” Sands said. He was not afraid of Sanchez, or anything they might do to him. He had, after all, survived all the other shit the world had thrown at him. Hell, he had only been a kid when he had come through the worst of it. And yeah, maybe he had lost his sanity then, but there was always a price to be paid for survival.

So he was not particularly frightened of Sanchez. “Here is my offer. Let me join you.”

The man on his right let out a surprised burst of laughter. The man on the left was silent. Diego Sanchez said, “Why would I do that?”

“I’m a spy,” Sands said very simply. “And I’m good at what I do. You know I am, or I wouldn’t have survived in this country as long as I did. I’m a good shot, I’m an American, and I’m blind. No one would ever suspect the blind American.” He smirked.

Diego Sanchez was apparently thinking this over. Sands could tell by the way the man on his left suddenly shifted his weight from foot to foot in agitation. “I would have to test you first. Prove your loyalty.”

He nodded. “Sure. I would expect you to.”

“Men who wish to join my cartel must first accomplish a task,” Diego Sanchez said. “Normally this involves something about our product, but I do not think you care about drugs.”

Sands shook his head. “You know I don’t give a shit about your drugs, or anyone else’s.”

“As I said,” replied Diego Sanchez. “So your task is different. Kill El Mariachi.”

Sands shrugged, although it was not easy to do – his shoulders ached from having his hands cuffed behind him for so long. “Okay.”

“Okay? You expect me to believe that?” demanded Sanchez. He sounded very cold.

“Well sure,” Sands drawled. “I mean, I was pissed when he drove off and left me, but it was also kind of good to get away from him, you know? I’m getting really sick of him. You would be too if you had to live with him. Besides, are you forgetting?” He grinned. “Insane here. Us madmen don’t form attachments to other people. It’s too...normal.” He laughed for a moment, then let the smile die. “So yeah, I’ll kill him for you.”

Not that he could. He knew that now. If Sanchez called his bluff, he had no idea what he would do.

Unfortunately – or perhaps fortunately, depending on how you looked at it – Sanchez did not fall for it.

“Yet one of the conditions of your surrender was that we let him go,” the cartel leader said.

Sands sighed theatrically. “Yeah. It was, wasn’t it?” He shrugged again, even though he already knew that he had lost this particular round. “But hey, it sounded good, didn’t it?”

“How stupid do you think I am?” Sanchez demanded. “Even if I did not know you were lying about wanting to join us, do you really think I would give you a gun?”

Sands shrugged again. “That’s okay. I don’t need a gun to kill anyone.” He kicked out with his right foot, sweeping the man beside him off his feet. The man fell over backward with a surprised yelp.

Sands dropped with him. The man hit the floor a bare second before he did. He pinned the man’s throat with his right knee. He reached behind him, feeling a flare of the old pain in his right shoulder as he did. When his groping hands found a clump of the man’s hair, he yanked the man’s head up and to the side. The loud crack as the man’s neck broke filled the room.

Footsteps ran toward him. Not just one set, but three. There had been two other men in the office, he realized, probably flanking Diego Sanchez.

They knocked him off the dead man, and to the floor. Booted feet thudded into his ribs, stomach, head. And it didn’t matter how many there were. When they were beating the shit out of you, most things ceased to matter.

They let up long enough for Sanchez to approach. “You killed Jose,” the drug lord said. “That is one more death you will pay for.”

Sanchez knelt beside him. Sands longed to spit on him, but a boot on the side of his head was grinding his face into the floor, and there was no chance. “I think I will offer you a welcome, after all,” said Diego Sanchez. “Because you are going to be here for a long time, Agent Sands. A very long time.”

“Fuck you,” he snarled. 

“I know El Mariachi will come for you,” Sanchez said. “In fact, I am counting on it. That is why I took you with me.” His voice drifted a little, as he stood up. “El Mariachi will come, and when he does, I will kill him. You, Agent Sands, will get to listen to his dying screams. They will be the last thing you hear, before you die.”

“He won’t come,” Sands managed, then the boot pressed down hard, making speech impossible.

“Perhaps not,” Sanchez said. “Either way, it does not matter. You will still die. But we will see. We will wait, and we will see.”

Sanchez kicked him. Bright pain exploded in his face, and then it was gone.

Then everything was gone.

****

The dream is horrible. The sunlight heats his face, but beneath it, he feels cold, so cold that he will never be warm again. He is caught between two of them, twisting and fighting to get free, shouting curses at them. His hands are unbound, but that does not seem to matter, because he still cannot get free.

El Mariachi is screaming.

The men are laughing. El’s screams grow weaker. 

Diego Sanchez walks up to him. “Take this.” The scorpion dagger is placed in his hand. The hilt is hot to the touch, burning his palm, marking him directly over the scar where once this blade drank his blood. “Cut him.”

What choice does he have? He made this decision and now he must follow it through. He walks across the courtyard, holding the burning dagger. When he reaches El he stops and raises his hand so he can touch El, so he can see what they have done.

El is tied to a post, slumped against his bonds. There is blood. So much blood. Already the mariachi is dying.

“Cut his hands off,” Diego Sanchez orders.

He raises his hand higher, so he can feel El’s face, and then he cries out in horror. They have taken El’s eyes.

“You were right,” El sighs.

“About what?” he moans. Oh god. El. They have ripped out El’s eyes.

“About everything,” El says.

They are all shouting at him, jeering, laughing, urging him to cut. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I never wanted this.”

“I know,” El whispers.

“I’ll see you on the other side,” he says.

He cuts. Just once. Blood pours from the gash in El’s throat. The mariachi sighs. Maybe he says, “Thank you.”

He raises the dagger to his own throat, but before he can cut the thunder of guns fills the air. His body twists and turns under the impact of so many bullets, falling by slow degrees.

Then the ground is there. It’s a soft landing. He lies there for a moment, then opens his eyes.

El stands there. A beautiful dark-haired woman is at his side. She is carrying a young girl in one arm, and her other is about El’s waist.

El holds out a hand. He smiles.

Smiling, he gets up and goes to them.

****

He woke with a start. Immediately the pain of his battered body was there, clamoring for his attention.

He rolled onto his side with a groan, drawing up his knees so he could curl into a ball. He had no idea where he was, but the air was cool, and damp. A wine cellar, perhaps. Definitely underground, wherever it was.

Okay. Stay calm. He just had to stay calm. He could do that.

But deep inside his head, something stirred, and opened one sleepy eye.

********

Chapter 19: Understanding

 

He heard singing. Which was odd because nowadays he didn’t know anyone who could sing. Certainly not any women, and it was very definitely a woman singing right now.

The words were in English, and they were hard to follow. El was proud of his fluency with the language, but it was always harder to understand when the words were sung. He could only make out one word in two. Enough, however, for him to know that he was listening to a love song, a lament for lost chances.

And suddenly he realized he knew that voice. His eyes popped open.

Carolina smiled at him. “Hola,” she said softly.

El sat up, his heart beating so hard against his ribcage that it physically hurt. “Carolina!” He had meant to shout her name, but it came out as a breathless whisper.

“Still you do this,” Carolina said. She shook her head. “Ay, mi querido, what does it take with you?”

“What?” He did not understand her.

“Who is the blind man?” Carolina asked.

El blinked. “His name is Sands. He--” And he suddenly realized that Carolina had not meant the question literally. He flushed, and dropped his head.

She leaned forward, and he felt a ghostly touch on his bowed head, like a whisper of silk. “You need not fear, my love.”

“I’m afraid,” he confessed. Everyone he had ever cared for was gone. Everyone he had ever loved had been taken from him. How could he endanger anyone else?

How could he let himself feel again?

And Carolina, his beautiful lost Carolina. How could he dishonor her memory?

“No,” she said, so kindly that he was able to look up at her. “I told you, do not fear. You do not taint my memory by loving another.”

“I don’t know what to do,” he whispered. “Tell me. Tell me what to do.”

“You must follow your heart,” Carolina said. She smiled at him. “As you have ever done.”

She stood up. He reached out a hand, wanting to keep her here with him. “Don’t go!”

But she was moving away from him, and although he reached out, she was not there, she was gone...

...and he was awake.

****

He lay blinking in the sun, his head pounding. A latticework of shadows covered his face from a tree limb draped across his head and chest. He lifted a hand to push a twig away from his mouth, and encountered Sands’ gunbelts laying across his chest.

Judging by the position of the sun, he had been unconscious less than an hour. But he knew, even without sitting up, that it was already too late.

Sands was gone. Probably dead.

_Then why aren’t you dead?_

He didn’t know.

_What are you going to do about it?_

Well, nothing. Not right now. Right now he had to figure some things out. Whether it had been a dream or a heavenly visitation, Carolina was right. At this moment, he was the blind man. And there could be no going forward until he could see again.

Two things at least were very clear. The first was that Sands, whether he knew the truth of it or not, had feelings for El. Possibly even love.

The second was that he had deliberately gone to the cartel, because of those feelings. And he had done it thinking El did not return those feelings.

_But do I? Do I really?_

Okay, okay. It was too scary to try and answer that question straight on. Better to approach it obliquely. Think about something else. Think about how Sands would answer the question.

_Still the same psychotic asshole you know and love._

Know and love. He didn’t think he had ever heard Sands use the word “love” in that context before, except to mock it, when El had suggested he loved Chiclet. He seriously doubted Sands even knew what love was. There were many things about Sands’ past that he did not know, but he believed strongly that Sands had known very little love in his life. If any at all.

Which made El the first.

_Still the same psychotic asshole you know and love._

He closed his eyes, remembering that night in the hotel. The way Sands had sat in the darkness, wearing no clothes, and no sunglasses. Completely vulnerable, all the barriers stripped away. Sands had been reaching out to him, he realized now, in the only way he knew how.

And he hadn’t seen it.

Carolina was right. He really was blind.

A low groan escaped him. _I didn’t know..._

Well it was time he did know. Time to understand some things. Because they could not go on as they had been, not with so many unanswered questions, so many unresolved issues.

_Do I love him?_

He thought back, recalling memories from the past two years. From his first meeting with Sands in the cantina, to the last night they had spent in Cozumel. He thought of the way Sands laughed, or the lazy drawl that meant he was excited about something. The quick hands, the way he could navigate a strange room without fear or hesitation, the unflinching bravery he exhibited in the face of his blindness.

A year ago in Durango, El had dreamed of Sands’ death at the hands of the CIA. He could still remember his grief in the dream, and the way he had pulled his guns, determined to kill them all. He remembered the coldness of the room they had kept Sands in, and the blood on the agent’s face. The way Sands had smiled to hear him.

He remembered the feel of the scorpion dagger sinking into his chest. The pain of a wound meant to save his life.

The signs had been there for so long, but he had willfully denied them. It had begun in earnest during the search for Chiclet’s brother, when he had begun to watch Sands so carefully, but the beginnings reached back even further than that. Thinking back on it now, he thought it had truly begun the night he and Sands had sat in the backyard of the house and Sands had let El touch his face. The night El had first contemplated kissing him.

_Are you still standing?_

_Still._

He thought of the terrible morning Fideo had betrayed them, when Sands’ darkest secret had been so cruelly unveiled. He remembered the feel of Sands’ hand on his as he had pulled the trigger, killing the last man from the cartel. He remembered the desolate, tearless weeping on the morning after they had first slept together, and the way Sands had trembled in his arms.

 _Que quieres en la vida?_ Carolina had asked.

_What do you want in life?_

_Libertad_ , he had answered. Freedom. But what was freedom, when you had no one to share it with?

Once, he had known love of the truest kind. He had given everything of himself to Carolina, and she in turn had given him all she had. But she was gone, had been gone for years. He had thought he would spend the rest of his life alone. How amazing then, that he had found someone again.

No one kissed him like Sands did. No one made him feel the things Sands did. No one was as complicated as Sands was.

There was no one else for him, except Sands.

And maybe it was not romantic, what he felt, but that did not make it any less true. There was passion, and fire and flame. There was constancy, and respect. Honesty. Sincerity. Trust.

Love.

A great shudder swept through El. He let out a long sigh. There. He had admitted it. He loved Sands.

Immediately he felt lighter inside. Strange, but true. He had been carrying the weight of doubt around for so long, he had forgotten what it felt like to be free of it. Now he knew his course, and what he had to do, and the relief that came with the knowing was overwhelming.

“I love him,” El said aloud, testing the words. He liked the way they sounded. He smiled.

The smile lasted long enough for him to sit up and throw off the tree branch covering him. He had finally figured out his own heart, and that was good, but there were still two problems facing him. The first was that Sands did not know he felt this way; had likely gone to his death with that ignorance. The second was that El now had to chase after him yet again.

And for the last time, he swore. When it was finished now, it would be finished for good, one way or another. They would never be apart again.

He stood up with a wince. His head throbbed, most of the pain centered on his jaw. Sands had hit him hard, and he had been completely unprepared for it. His neck ached too, from the way his head had snapped back so viciously. But he was alive. The cartel had come looking for them, and yet he was still alive. All because of Sands.

He picked up Sands’ gunbelts, holding them so the pistols knocked against his shins. Rubbing the back of his neck, he began walking up the road.

****

As he neared the house, he drew his gun and began to scan the ground for signs of blood. Rather than feeling reassured when he did not see any, he grew tense and anxious. Where was the blood? Where were the signs of a struggle?

There had been men in the yard. He could see their footprints still, in places where the grass was beaten down. Where were they? How long had they been gone?

A body lay on the porch.

A small cry escaped him. He dropped Sands’ gunbelts and ran toward the house, all caution forgotten.

Chiclet lay face down on the wooden boards of the porch. El reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. The boy did not stir. Carefully, praying hard, El rolled him over.

A large bruise encircled Chiclet’s right eye. Dried blood ran in a line down his chin from a cut on his mouth. But his chest rose and fell evenly, and El slumped in relief to realize that the boy was still alive.

He sat back on his heels. What had happened here? Where was Diego Sanchez? Where was Sands? Why had they left Chiclet alive?

Why hadn’t they come looking for him?

Too many questions. And he could not wait for the answers. He opened the screen door, then the front door, and went inside.

The house was a shambles. Everything that could have been destroyed, was. Shards of glass mingled with wooden splinters and puffs of plaster. The furniture bled stuffing. There were holes punched in the walls. Bullet holes in the floor.

The bedrooms were awful. Mattresses slashed and shot and overturned. Clothing destroyed. Mirrors shattered. Furniture broken.

In the kitchen, the sink was full of broken glass and dishes. Food had been flung all over, and it spattered the walls and floor and even the ceiling; an eggshell clung precariously to one blade of the ceiling fan as it slowly rotated.

El clenched his hands into fists. They had destroyed his house. They had hurt Chiclet and they had taken Sands.

They were going to die. Every last one of them.

He turned on his heel and stalked back outside, letting the screen door slam behind him. He dropped down to one knee in front of Chiclet. He shook the boy’s shoulder. “Hey. Chiclet. Wake up.”

The boy’s head lolled. His eyelids fluttered. El shook him harder, and Chiclet opened his eyes. His gaze was unfocused at first, but El counted to five, and Chiclet at last looked at him.

“Señor!” The boy tried to sit up. He got about halfway up, then moaned loudly, putting one hand to his head. 

El helped him up. “What happened?”

Chiclet stared at him blankly for a second, then his eyes widened. “Señor Sands! The men took him! He told them he would go with them, if they let me go.”

El fought the urge to drop his head into his hands and groan. _Ah, my friend, such courage! And it will only get you killed._

Then, _If only I had told him! He would never have done this if he knew how I felt about him._

And on the heels of that, _If you had told him, he still would have done it. Even more so. Because if he knew how you felt, he would have tried all the harder to keep you safe._

“We have to go after him!” Chiclet cried. “They can’t have been gone long. We can go after him. There’s still time.” His voice broke. “There’s still time,” he whispered.

El put a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “Start from the beginning,” he said. “Tell me everything.”

Chiclet took a deep breath, fighting for self-control. He nodded, and when he began to speak, his voice was calm and unhurried.

He told El about the arrival of the cartel. At first the men had done nothing but lurk. Everyone in the village had known why they were there, but no one had talked about it. It was just one of those things that everyone knew.

Then things had changed. Shopkeepers found themselves forced to give things to the cartel men. Women were harassed as they walked down the streets. There were robberies, rapes. A man was beaten in the alleyway behind the cantina, so severely he died two days later from his injuries.

All this time Chiclet continued to visit the house of his friends, doing his duty. Sometimes he went with the village priest, but mostly he went alone. He had known the cartel men were following him, he said, but he had refused to stay away. He would not let them bully him, he said. Besides, up until this morning, the men had left him alone.

“I know what I want to do with my life now,” he said, raising his chin stubbornly. “I will join _la policia_ , and I will work to rid this country of the cartels, and all their evil.” His face grew pensive. “I had never seen anyone stand up to them before,” he said. “Not until Señor Sands did. He showed me what true courage is.”

El swallowed hard. “Me too,” he said.

Chiclet looked at him sharply, realized the mariachi was not mocking him, and relaxed. “They were here this morning,” he said. “They grabbed me before I could get away. They made me stand here and wait. Someone called Diego Sanchez on a cell phone, so he would know when you were coming.”

El nodded, thinking of the man sitting outside the cantina. “Then what happened?”

Chiclet told him how Sands had appeared, flanked by two cartel members, his hands cuffed behind him. But he had been smiling. “I was so happy to see him,” Chiclet said. “But I was afraid, too. I was afraid they were going to kill him.”

Instead Sands had brokered a deal. His life in exchange for Chiclet and El. And Diego Sanchez had agreed. One of the men had struck Sands and knocked him unconscious, and they had begun carrying him to a car.

“Then the man holding me hit me,” Chiclet said, in a very small voice. Earlier he had sounded brave and defiant, but now he sounded like a child again. “I tried to stay awake, but he hit me too hard.”

“What was the last thing you saw?” El asked.

“The car,” Chiclet whispered.

“Would you recognize it again if you saw it?” El asked.

Chiclet looked up, and the hope blazing in his eyes made El wince. “I would,” the boy avowed. He sat up straight. “I’m coming with you,” he said. “I can shoot. And I know what they look like, and what their cars look like. I can help you find them.”

Every inch of his body screamed that this was wrong, but El found himself nodding. Chiclet had earned the right to come along – and the boy deserved vengeance of his own. “We will leave right away,” he said. “We cannot let them get too far ahead of us.”

Chiclet nodded and got to his feet. He winced a little, then carefully schooled his features to show no pain. “What do you need me to do?”

“First we go into the village,” El said as he stood up. Chiclet groaned, but El was adamant. “You must tell your family where you are going. And I want to speak to some people. They may have heard things, or know things. I have an idea where Sanchez’s estate is, but the countryside of Sinaloa is large. He could be anywhere.”

Unhappily, Chiclet nodded. “All right.”

“I promise you,” El said, “we will move as fast as we can.”

Chiclet brightened a little at this. He started off the porch, then he turned around. His eyes narrowed. He pointed at El’s face. “Did he do that to you?”

El touched the sore spot on his jaw. “Yes.”

“To keep you away.”

“Yes.”

Chiclet smiled a little. “I’m afraid for him,” he said. “But I’m happy, too.”

El just nodded. He understood completely. 

****

As they were walking toward the car, Chiclet said, “It was good for him, to go away with you.”

It wasn’t really a question, but El replied anyway. “I think so.”

“Are you two...you know...” Chiclet’s feet stumbled momentarily, and he blushed bright red.

El was startled. He glanced at the boy’s heated cheeks, and found himself flushing too. “Would it bother you if we were?” he asked.

“No!” Chiclet exclaimed, surprised by El’s response. “No. I’d be happy. He needs someone to love him.” He hesitated and looked down. When he spoke again, it was with the air of someone revealing a deep secret. “When I came back, after Christmas, I told him I loved him. I don’t think anyone had ever said that to him before. I think I was the first.”

As sad as it was, El could not argue with this. “I think you were too,” he said.

 _But I will be next_ , he thought. _I will say it the first chance I get. I will make him believe that I mean it._

_And I will never stop saying it._

_Never._

********

Chapter 20: Following

 

Regrets assailed him as he drove back into the village. _What if I had told him? If only I had known. I should have stopped him. I should have known what he was going to do._

He should have known. Their coupling last night had been fierce and violent, accompanied by curses and bruises. But it had rarely been better, and now El knew why. Last night had been Sands’ way of saying good-bye.

 _No_ , he thought furiously. _I refuse to accept that._

He made Chiclet tell him the story again, this time in greater detail. He demanded answers to his questions, growing increasingly relentless, so that by the time they reached the boy’s house, Chiclet was in tears. El was moved by those tears, but he did not stop. He could not afford softness right now. That would lead to worry and worry would lead to indecision, and indecision would get both him and Sands killed. “We have to know everything about them,” he said harshly. “Especially Diego Sanchez. Where he is. What kind of man he is.”

But he was afraid he already knew. Sanchez wanted him more than anything. El Mariachi, the man who had foiled the cartels for so long, mocking them, laughing at them. Sands was a catch, but not the main prize. They would use Sands as bait to draw him out. They would expect him to come after them. They would be waiting.

He looked at Chiclet. The boy’s youngest sister was sitting in the dust of the front yard, staring solemnly at them. “We do know one thing about Sanchez,” El said. He tried hard to gentle his voice. “He is not the kind of man who kills innocent children.”

Chiclet looked up at him. “Why do you say that?”

“Because he could have killed you,” El said. “And he did not.” He drew one of his guns and held it out. “Do you know how to use this?” As far as he knew, the only time Chiclet had ever handled a gun was on the day of Fideo’s betrayal, when the boy had nearly shot El as he had walked into the kitchen.

Chiclet nodded. “Sí.” This was clearly a lie, but El let it slide. Now was not the time for splitting hairs.

A small little smile crept across Chiclet’s face as he took the gun. “The first time I ever held one of these, Señor Sands gave it to me. He asked if I had ever used one and I said no, and he said, ‘Don’t ever, because they’re very bad.’” The smile faded from his face. “He wanted me to kill the man following him.”

El stared at him. In all the time he had known Chiclet, he had never heard the boy tell this story. He had always thought Sands had killed Barillo’s men without any help. “What did you do?”

“I couldn’t do it,” Chiclet said. His hand tightened over the gun. “But I would, if I could go back and do it all over again. I would kill them for hurting him.” He looked up at El, his young face set in determined lines. “And I will kill them now. Whatever is needed.”

El did not doubt his sincerity, but he knew it was one thing to vow to take life, and an entirely different thing to actually do it. And he meant to see that Chiclet did not learn that distinction. Not now, and hopefully not ever.

“Come on,” he said. “We must tell your mother.”

“Señor, wait,” Chiclet said.

El gave him a fond, slightly exasperated smile. “When are you going to stop calling me that?”

Chiclet flushed. “I couldn’t,” he said. “My mama says--”

“Yes, you can,” El said. “I told you to. Besides,” he gestured to the gun, “if you are to wear that, you must behave as a man. That means you call me by my name.”

The boy nodded, but the color in his cheeks only deepened. “What is it?” El asked, growing impatient again.

Chiclet gazed up at him. “I don’t know your name,” he said.

El was shocked speechless. Surely he had told the boy his real name at some point. Surely he had. Or Sands, maybe. But he saw the truth in Chiclet’s open gaze, and he swore under his breath.

He told Chiclet his name. The boy nodded, accepting this secret with the proper weight. “But you can just call me El,” he said. “If you prefer.”

Chiclet nodded again, his chin jerking up and down. “I think I do.”

“All right then.” El opened his car door. “Let’s go speak to your mother.”

****

Sands could not stop thinking about the dream. About El. And a dark-haired woman who could only have been Carolina. 

It intrigued him that he would dream about a woman he had never met, never seen. He wondered if she looked anything like the woman in his dream. Not that he would ever know for sure. He didn’t think he believed in God and heaven, but if heaven existed, he sure as hell wasn’t going there when he died.

More disturbing, however, was the rest of the dream. The jeering laughter of the cartel men. The blood on El’s face. The holes where El’s eyes had been. How hot El’s blood had felt as it washed over his hand.

El had said, _Thank you_. He was sure of it.

Oh shit. Oh shit shit shit.

_Don’t panic. Don’t freak out. Don’t don’t don’t. If you do, you’ll lose control. Can’t do that. Can’t._

A trembly groan escaped him. Every bone in his body hurt. He tried to find a comfortable position to lie in, but there was no comfort to be had. The floor was hard stone beneath him, and his hands were still cuffed behind him. He hurt all over from the beating, and pain stabbed at him with every breath.

Still the dream would not let go; he could not stop thinking about it.

Oh Christ. He was in serious, serious trouble here.

 _All right all right. Calm down_. The dream was just a dream. It would never happen. El would never allow himself to be captured by Diego Sanchez’s cartel. The mariachi had evaded capture this long; he would not succumb now.

And if the unthinkable happened, and El fell into the cartel’s hands? _No. El would never. He would never._

It was true, El would never.

But would El surrender willingly?

He thought that El just might.

Hell, he _knew_ El would.

He groaned again. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck.

“You stupid fucking idiot,” he sighed. Of course El was going to come for him. He should have known that from the start. His brave, noble plan? Utter horseshit. He had not only given himself to the cartel, but he had handed them El Mariachi on a silver platter.

He felt sick. El was going to die. And it was all his fault. If it hadn’t been for him, El would have spent the rest of his life in hiding. Admittedly not the easiest way to live, but it was still living.

Inside his head, someone laughed.

“No,” he snarled. “No!” _No, you can’t! Not now!_ He lifted his head, intending to dash his brains out on the stone floor, and suddenly froze. There were footsteps outside, beyond whatever room he was imprisoned in.

The laughter stopped. The voice went silent again.

He scoffed. Of course it had. The men were back, come to hurt him some more. Probably to make good on Sanchez’s promise to make him scream. The voice, the great wise protector that saved him from pain and fear, had deliberately left this time. This was his punishment for daring to assert control and make it go away. It meant to make him suffer the coming torture all his own.

He didn’t care. He would endure anything if it meant being alone in his head.

As the door to his cell opened, he smiled.

****

Over and over the people of the village said one word: Caimanero. Within an hour El was convinced that Diego Sanchez made his home in the ugly pink house that had once belonged to Ajedrez, Barillo’s daughter.

He wondered if Sands knew, and what he made of this irony.

Chiclet’s parents were distressed to see him go, but they did not stand in his way. They knew of their son’s deep attachment to the blind American, and they also knew his stubbornness. Nothing would prevent Chiclet from joining El right now, and they were smart enough to know it. 

By late afternoon, they were on the road, the village receding in the rearview mirror. This was the first time Chiclet had ever left his home, and he was nervous and excited. “What happens now?”

“We go to Sinaloa de Leyva,” said El. The town was not far from Caimanero. It was too risky to enter Caimanero itself. In fact, he thought they were taking a big chance just by going _near_ the place, although they would have to go there eventually.

But not just yet. He had plenty of ammunition. In Sinaloa de Leyva he could buy whatever else he required. Right now he was thinking a few grenades would do him, but he supposed he would have a better idea once he saw the pink house again and knew how well fortified it was.

He had to admit he was surprised. He would have expected Diego Sanchez to choose a more palatial estate for his home, something like the hacienda where Ramon Escalante had lived. Like Sanchez’s failure to kill Chiclet, his choice of home said something about him. El just wasn’t sure what that something was.

“How do we do this?” Chiclet asked.

Had he been with Sands, El would have shrugged. Instead he said, “I do not know yet. I will know more when I see the house.”

****

That night he took Chiclet out shooting.

He wanted to see how well the kid could do. There had never been a chance to teach him how to use a gun, but some people were natural shots. El was hoping Chiclet was one of these prodigies. He would need someone to back him up when he went into the house to get Sands. He had visions of Chiclet lying on his belly atop the stone wall encircling the house, shooting at anyone who might interfere with the plan.

The sun was setting, but there was still plenty of daylight left. El set up three beer bottles, standing two on rocks and one on the ground. He walked back over to Chiclet. “Now,” he said. “Let’s see you hit those.”

Chiclet gave him a shaky smile, and El realized he was scared to death. His carefully crafted image of the kid coolly shooting the enemy began to fragment.

Chiclet drew the gun and cocked it. He held it in both hands. He raised it high, squinted one eye closed, and took aim at the bottle on the left.

“Just squeeze the trigger,” El said. “Don’t pull. It’s not a jerky motion. It is smooth, deliberate. Take aim first. Find your target.”

Flinching with each pull of the trigger, Chiclet fired at the bottles.

El watched, and bid farewell to his plan. If life was a TV show, this would be the point where Chiclet revealed himself to be a natural-born sniper, and together they would ride off into the sunset to rescue their friend. Unfortunately, reality rarely worked out that way. Chiclet was a terrible shooter. He did not come close to hitting any of the bottles.

“That’s all right,” El said, hoping he didn’t sound as discouraged as he felt. “I wouldn’t want you to shoot anybody anyway.”

Chiclet held out the gun. He kept his eyes on the ground and did not look up at El. “Maybe you should take this back.”

“Keep it,” El said. “I’ll need you to cover me when I go in. All you need to do is fire a few shots in their general direction, like you did with the bottles.” Chiclet winced, and El wished he could take the words back. “Just as long as you keep them off me, that’s all that matters.”

“I can’t shoot anybody,” Chiclet said. He was very pale; the bruising around his eye stood out in sharp contrast.

El frowned. “If you wish to be a policeman, you are going to have to learn to shoot someone.”

Chiclet lost even more color in his face. “I don’t want to,” he whispered.

El pursed his lips. “Well,” he said. “You are still young. You have plenty of time to decide what you wish to be when you grow up.”

“How old were you when you knew you wanted to be a mariachi?” asked the boy.

He didn’t know what to say to this. There had never been a time in his life when he hadn’t wanted to be a mariachi, to follow in the footsteps of his father and his father’s father. Cesar had sneered, but Papa had called him _guitarista_ , imbuing the word with such pride and love that he had grown up believing there could be no life for him that did not involve music.

 _How did I get here?_ he wondered in amazement. He was sexually involved with a blind, insane American ex-CIA agent. He loved that man. And here he was, standing in the middle of nowhere with a twelve-year old boy, preparing to take down an entire drug cartel in order to save that man’s life.

“Come on,” El said. “Let’s go back to the hotel. We have to get up early tomorrow.”

****

In the morning he went out and bought the supplies he thought he might need. He ordered Chiclet to stay in the hotel room, and drove out to the drug house.

He took position on a hilltop overlooking the house. The hill sloped down, steep in some places, a more gentle incline in others. It reached level ground again at a point right outside the house’s backyard. El hunkered down about halfway down the hill, using a scrub bush to hide himself. He brought out a pair of binoculars, and gazed at his target.

Over two years had passed since he had been here, but very little had changed. The house was still the same, pinkish-gray stone and lots of glass. A stone wall still bordered the property, and on the inside of the wall were the same low bushes. Their flowers were in bloom, and El felt a pang in his heart as he remembered the way Sands had looked that night, with one of those red flowers in his hair.

Some things, however, had changed. Security cameras had been installed under the roof eaves of the house, and men stood silent watch at the corners of the house. A garage had been built, with three vintage cars inside, all black, all carefully washed and waxed. A satellite dish poked unobtrusively from the back corner of the house, proof that its new occupant wanted all the movie channels.

After counting how many men stood guard, El shifted his gaze toward the house. The kidney-shaped swimming pool was still there, as well as the ugly patio furniture. But today, there were people using that furniture.

Two people. Diego Sanchez, and Sands. They were having lunch.

Shocked, he lowered the binoculars and stared at the ground. Having lunch? Had Sands somehow convinced Diego Sanchez to let him join the cartel? Or was this the condemned man’s last meal?

He took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. This was the kind of thing Carolina had always warned him about. He was so impulsive, prone to making spontaneous decisions, and that very spontaneity blinded him to the reality of situations. He needed to be sure of what he was seeing, before he did anything.

He raised the binoculars to his eyes again, determined to see clearly this time.

What he saw made his heart rate speed up again. His hands tightened on the casing of the binoculars.

Diego Sanchez was eating a plate of rice and beans; in his other hand he held a cell phone, and he was talking animatedly to the person on the other end. The sun shone off his bald head, and although the day was warm and Sanchez was dressed entirely in black, he was not sweating.

Sands sat in the chair to Diego Sanchez’s right. His plate was empty. A dirty blindfold covered his eyes. At first glance his right hand was merely lying in his lap, but then El saw that it was cuffed to the seat of the chair. His left hand was resting on the table, and El saw right away why that hand was free – they had broken his fingers. Badly, too, by the looks of things.

Sands, it seemed, was never going to play guitar again.

He was swaying slightly in the chair, clearly not entirely alert. He had been beaten, and fresh blood and bruises covered his face. Although Sanchez looked at him several times, and in fact seemed to be talking about him to the other person on the phone, Sands showed no interest in either Sanchez or his surroundings. To El it looked like he was simply trying hard not to pass out.

As he watched, Diego Sanchez finished his conversation. He flipped his cell phone shut and slid it into the pocket of his suit coat. He said something to Sands, but although El saw his lips move, he had absolutely no idea what the words were.

Sands did not respond, or even acknowledge that Sanchez had spoken. Even when Sanchez reached out to squeeze the broken fingers of his left hand, Sands said nothing. He merely threw his head back and bit down on his lip hard. The cords on his neck stood out, but he did not scream.

Apparently this displeased Sanchez. He backhanded Sands with all his might. Sands tumbled off the chair, ending up face down on the ground, his right arm lifted, still held by the cuff about his wrist connecting him to the chair.

Sanchez said something, and laughed.

Sands did not move.

El had seen enough. He lowered the binoculars again. As he always did before he prepared to kill men, he crossed himself.

_Santo Dios, please forgive me what I am about to do._

********

Chapter 21: Rescuing

 

They returned at night. Chiclet was good at stealth, to El’s pleasant surprise. It came from having so many siblings, he told El. Like all little boys around the world, he had long ago learned how to spy on his older brothers without them being aware of it. Sneaking around came quite naturally to him.

Only a thin crescent of moon glimmered up above; clouds were filling up the sky, and the moon moved in and out of shadow. El wore black, the better to blend in with this dark backdrop. Stealth was essential for this mission to succeed.

He had to kill as many men as possible without raising an alarm. He had to get inside the house without anyone knowing he was there. He had to free Sands without anyone seeing him, and then they had to get out of the house. Sands was adept at moving silently, so no worries there. The only difficulties as El saw them were being able to guide Sands effectively while shooting their way out, and the very real possibility that Sands would be physically unable to walk out under his own power.

But he would deal with that when the time came.

He looked at Chiclet. “Now, you know what to do?” 

The boy nodded. He too wore dark clothing. “Sí.”

They were crouched on the very same hilltop where El had sat earlier in the day and watched Diego Sanchez eat lunch. El undid the clasps on his guitar case and lifted the lid, revealing the instrument within. As he unlatched the guitar itself, he heard Chiclet make a funny little sighing sound.

The guns were there, waiting for him, innocent machines that came to life in his hands. It was not their fault that they knew how to spill blood. He had never resented them their purpose, although sometimes he did hate them.

He screwed silencers onto his pistols. He loaded his pockets with spare clips of ammunition. He reached into the guitar case and withdrew a wide black belt with many thin loops. He buckled this about his waist and slowly began sliding the throwing knives into the loops.

The throwing knives. After experiencing firsthand the damage they could do to a person, he had set about learning them. Carolina had joined him in these lessons, but whereas he had gone about the learning process with grim methodical routine, she had enjoyed it. She had become very good with the knives, far better than him. He had not used them in years -- not since her death, in fact. Holding the small, lethal blades now filled him with sorrow.

 _You must follow your heart_ , Carolina had said. _Que quieres en la vida?_

_What do you want in life?_

The sorrow left him. His resolve hardened. He would use these knives tonight, and in doing so he would honor Carolina’s memory one last time. He would lay her to rest tonight, for good.

He turned to Chiclet. “Be patient,” he said. “Do not worry. But if the sun begins to rise, and we are not back, leave. Go back to town. Take the bus back to your home, and never think about us again.”

He started down the hillside.

****

On silent feet, El crept down the hill. They were expecting him, all right. He doubted there were this many men standing guard on any other night. No, they knew he was coming.

And they wanted him.

The stone wall was just as easy to climb today as it had been two years ago. The only difference was a slight stiffness in his limbs that hadn’t been there on that day – a subtle reminder that although things like stone did not change, he was human, and a captive of time.

He had chosen to approach the wall at the far back corner. He reached the top and cautiously laid one hand flat on the surface.

No alarms sounded. No one shot at him.

In one fluid movement he slithered over the wall and dropped down on the other side, onto Diego Sanchez’s property. The red-flowered bushes broke his fall, and also served to hide him.

He crouched behind the nearest bush, wondering how to go about this. The security cameras looked out into the yard; anyone monitoring them from inside the house would immediately spot him if he crossed the lawn.

As always, long-range planning eluded El Mariachi. His strengths had always lain in spontaneity, and flexibility.

Keeping close to the wall, still crouched down low, El began to move. He had to do this very slowly, mindful of rustling the bushes too much, and letting the sounds of his passage slip into the quiet night. He followed the wall around to the right side of the house. Two men stood at the back corner, the same corner where once he had stood and shot a member of Ramon Escalante’s cartel. Just ahead, dimly reflecting the vague starlight, was the glass of the bathroom window, and the ledge he had used to climb onto the roof.

He had come as close as he dared. Slowly he pulled two of the throwing knives.

The men at the corner were smoking. They did not talk. They stared out into the night with grim faces. One of them kept glancing at the bushes El was currently hiding behind, and El knew that man had heard him approach. Just a rustling noise, perhaps. Not enough for him to tell his partner, but enough to grab his attention.

El shifted position slightly, so he had an opening in the bushes that he could throw through. He held the knives carefully, waiting for the night breeze to drop.

The wind died. El threw.

The two men fell, silver knives stuck in their foreheads.

El waited. He wondered what Chiclet, high up on the hill with the binoculars, made of this.

No alarms sounded.

However, the two men standing guard at the front corner of the house had seen their companions fall. They started running forward, bringing their weapons up. One of them raised a radio to his mouth.

El stood up and threw the next two knives without having time to aim. The throws were sloppy – Carolina would have scoffed – but they were true.

As the men were still falling, their bodies arching backward to accommodate the knives that had suddenly sprouted in their throats, El sprang from the bushes. He moved with the agile grace of the mariachi, a grace he only used anymore for the dance of killing.

He was so fast he was able to catch one body before it hit the ground. He plucked the knives from the men’s skulls and held them between the fingers of his right hand. He listened hard, but he could hear nothing. No alarms. No voices. No footsteps.

They still did not know he was there.

Carefully he moved to the front corner of the house, keeping the ugly pink stone to his back. A security camera hummed over his head. Two more men stood in front of the great wood double doors leading to the foyer – El did not recognize these doors and he surmised that Diego Sanchez had had them installed.

Not that it mattered. He was getting inside that house, no matter what doors stood in his way. 

Two more men were at the gated entrance to the driveway. These men were smoking and laughing. The men at the front door were not.

El stepped around the corner and whipped the bloody knives at the men in front of the door. As soon as the blades had left his fingers, his hand plunged down to the gun at his hip. He drew and fired two silenced shots.

All four men fell as one.

And still there were no alarms.

Keeping to the wall of the house, El walked right up to the front door. This time he did not retrieve his knives.

****

As he dropped to the stone floor, retching and heaving, Sands, ever the CIA agent and information gatherer, made a mental note: Apparently it really was possible to scream one’s guts out.

Diego Sanchez was the perfect host. He waited for his guest to finish vomiting before starting in again.

****

Now that he was inside the house, El moved fast. He knew he only had a few precious minutes – at most – before the dead men outside were discovered.

Two men were in the front hall, talking in low, urgent whispers; money was exchanging hands. El’s hands blurred down and he had thrown two more knives before the cartel men could even begin to react to his sudden presence.

Their bodies tumbled to the ground. El looked at them for a moment, then drew his guns. He would not need the knives any more tonight.

****

Sanchez’s cell phone chirped. With an impatient grunt, the cartel leader flipped it open. “Digáme.” He listened for a moment, then in a low, satisfied voice he said, “Well, it’s about time.”

He started to walk away. “You, come with me. And you two, stay here with him, but don’t touch him.”

Footsteps walked away. Sands lay still and thanked all the gods that were for his reprieve. He had come close to begging for that first promised death tonight.

Too close.

****

El heard nothing, but he felt the house change. Tension suddenly oozed from the very walls. The floor seemed to recoil beneath his feet as he stepped forward.

They knew he was here.

****

The men talked back and forth in quiet whispers. Sands didn’t even try to listen to them. He was hearing another voice right now, this one just a quiet sniggering laugh.

It was back. For maybe the last hour – hell, he didn’t know how long – it had been there, lurking in one corner of his mind. Not talking. Just laughing. It was amused by what was happening to him.

He knew what it wanted. It wanted him to say, _That’s it, I can’t take any more. You do this. You take over._ It wanted him to give up, the way he had as a child, in need of a protector. It wanted him to surrender control.

Only he wasn’t a scared child anymore, and he wasn’t going to give up anything.

“Hey.” This voice was close, and he flinched back, startled.

“Hey, you listening? Your buddy’s here. El Mariachi.” A grin tightened the man’s voice. “We’re gonna fucking kill him. Gonna fucking kill you both.”

****

Over the years El had come to rely on his intuition. He trusted it. It had kept him alive many times when a cooler, more rational head would only have gotten him killed. So when his intuition shrilled warning at him, he didn’t stop to think.

He only acted.

Not a moment too soon. As he ducked inside the hall closet, footsteps and men’s voices approached. They walked right past his hiding spot, and it was not until they were gone again that El let himself breathe a little.

Time was growing dangerously short. He had to find Sands. Now.

He eased open the closet door and moved back out into the hallway. _Where are you? Where?_ He could hear things now, voices in back rooms, cell phones ringing, booted feet hurrying.

And from a room beneath the house, a scream. It was the scream of someone in agony.

El’s entire body clenched. He came within a hair’s-breadth of pulling the trigger on both guns as his hands tried to spasm into fists.

_Don’t think. Just move. Now you know where he is._

Purposefully, El began searching for the kitchen, and the door he knew would lead him downstairs, to Sands.

****

A smelly boot crushed his windpipe, cutting the scream off and his air, too. Sands struggled weakly to breathe. _Oh God please don’t let me die with this fucker’s stinky foot in my face. Please._

“Christ, Lupe! You’re gonna fucking kill him!” laughed Goon Number One.

Goon Two, he of the steel-toed boots, made an “Enhh,” sound. “He’ll live.” He withdrew his foot, and Sands drank in a thin breath that burned all the way down. Air had never tasted better. 

“Sanchez said not to touch him.”

“Yeah, well, he ain’t gonna know, is he?”

“Hell, half of Mexico knows, after that scream. If you’re gonna do that, gag him first.”

“Nah.” Goon Two shrugged, leather jacket creaking. “We better get serious. El Mariachi could be here any minute.”

****

El took a step forward and placed his gun against the man in the leather jacket’s head. “He is already here.”

He pulled the trigger.

****

Two quick shots, and it was over.

El dropped to his knees. “Sands.” He transferred the gun in his right hand to his left, so he held both pistols at once, and reached out.

Then he drew his hand back, hesitating. Sands was battered from head to toe, so bloody and bruised El didn’t know if it was safe to touch him without hurting him. “Sands?”

“El.” There was no mistaking the relief in that single word.

“Where is the key?” he asked. Sands’ hands were shackled in front of him, which made escape more difficult, but not impossible. 

They were in a wine cellar. Racks of dusty wine bottles lined the walls. A sturdy staircase led up to a trapdoor set in the ceiling; a padlock held this door securely closed. El looked around the small room, searching frantically for the small key to the handcuffs.

“Sanchez has it.” Sands’ voice was hoarse – from screaming, no doubt. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Fuck. No key. El blinked. “Rescuing you,” he said.

“What for?” Sands demanded. “You’re fucking up my plan.”

“Some plan,” El said, a short chuckle escaping him in spite of himself. “You didn’t really think I’d let them have you, did you?”

“You were supposed to,” Sands said sulkily. 

“When have I ever done what I was supposed to do?” El asked. His amusement died. They had to get out of here. Now. “Can you walk?”

“Sure.” Sands sighed. “Actually, I have no fucking idea.”

El leaned forward and slid an arm about Sands’ shoulders. He helped the agent sit up, wincing in sympathetic pain when Sands’ breath caught and a whimper escaped him. “Stopstopstop,” Sands pleaded.

El froze. He had managed to get Sands into a sitting position, but it didn’t seem like they were going to be able to manage much more than that. “What is it?” he asked.

“It fucking _hurts_ ,” Sands snarled through clenched teeth. “What the fuck do you think?” He was shaking with pain, his breath coming in short gasps. El saw with growing anger that he had nearly bitten his lip through in his earlier efforts to stay silent under their torture.

“All right,” he said. “Slowly then. And don’t you pass out. I don’t have time to carry you.”

“Oh, fuck you,” Sands said wearily. But El heard the gathering strength in his voice, too, and he nodded to himself. Anger was a good motivator.

This time Sands was able to stand up. He went deathly white, and nearly fell, but El held him upright with one arm about his shoulders. “We have to be fast,” he said. “They know I’m here.”

For a long moment Sands did not respond. Or maybe he wasn’t able to. He just stood there with his head bowed, letting El support him. But at last he got his feet under him. He raised his head a little and muttered, “What the hell are you wearing?” 

El glanced down at himself. They were standing close together, his right side pressed to Sands’ left, and the agent could feel the strange sensation of the belt and throwing knives. “Weapons,” he said.

The word had no sooner left his mouth than he heard voices, and clunking footsteps – the men were coming back, hurrying down the stairs that led from the kitchen to the basements.

El glanced behind him. In his quick scan of the room he had seen a door that might prove useful. A storage space underneath the other stairway, the stairs that led to the locked trapdoor. 

The men were coming. There was no time to think. He let go of Sands and dashed forward, deliberately stepping into the puddle of vomit on the floor, then walking forward a few steps, leaving gruesome footprints behind him. When he had left three of these, he wiped the sole of his boot on his pant leg and hurried back to Sands. He grabbed the agent’s arm. “Come on.”

Sands stumbled along beside him. El opened the door under the stairs and pushed him inside, then stepped in himself and pulled the door closed. Not all the way – he didn’t want it to latch and lock them in.

The space under the stairs was cramped and narrow. Things with many legs skittered in the corners. El stepped back so he stood shoulder to shoulder with Sands. “They’ll think we already left,” he whispered.

He felt rather than saw, Sands nod. “You better be right,” the agent breathed.

El transferred the second gun in his left hand back to his right. He hoped he was right, too. But if not…. Well, he had no intention of going quietly.

The voices and footsteps came closer. One of the voices belonged to Diego Sanchez. And he sounded pissed.

“Go after them, goddamnit! They can’t have gone far yet. They’ll need to have a car close by, so they can get away. Look along the road. Get them!”

Men hurried to obey. The footsteps scattered. El had a terrible moment when he wondered what Chiclet was doing, high up on the hill. He felt fairly confident that Sanchez’s men would not find the boy, but of course there was no way to be sure of that. He would just have to trust to fate.

Outside their hiding place, the wine cellar went quiet. El relaxed a little, even though he knew it could be a trap -- Sanchez could have signaled silently to some of his men to stay behind, so the moment his prey stepped out of the hiding space, they would be taken.

 _No_ , El thought. _They fell for it. They did._

“El?” He could barely hear his name.

“What?” He turned so he faced Sands. He heard a rustle of movement and reached out blindly, catching Sands just as the agent collapsed.

He didn’t want to sit or kneel on the floor, where bugs and other things crawled. Carefully he tightened his arms, holding Sands up. “Stay with me,” he whispered.

Sands gave a small nod, but said nothing. His breathing was shallow and pained. Slowly he let his head rest on El’s shoulder. It was a gesture of simple trust, and El felt something tighten in his chest. Now was not the time to say the words he wanted to say, and he knew that, but he had to fight hard to swallow them back.

He let one hand drift down until he found the metal of the handcuffs. Sands hissed and pulled his hands away. “What are you doing?”

“I want to see how badly you’re hurt,” he replied.

“Christ, El, I’ve been wanting to cut my own hand off all day to make them stop touching it. What the hell makes you think I’m going to let you?”

El said simply, “Because you know I don’t want to hurt you.”

Sands sighed. He let El examine his left hand, and he did not make a sound, although El could feel him shaking all over. “Broken, dislocated, you name it,” he said. “Sorry, El, but I think our days of playing dueling guitars is over with.”

El swallowed hard against the rage building in his throat. He was no doctor, but he thought Sands was right. There were so few things left in life that Sands enjoyed, and now another one had been taken away from him. The injustice of it burned at El’s heart.

“Don’t say that,” he said. They had each been badly injured before in their hands, and yet they had defied the doctors’ predictions and rediscovered the guitar. Maybe that would happen again. “You never know.”

“Whatever,” Sands whispered.

El’s fingers skated over the chain of the handcuffs, to Sands’ right hand. He couldn’t feel any injuries there, but the cuff was tight, and he touched Sands’ swollen wrist. “Broken?”

“I don’t think so. Sprained.” El thought of Sanchez hitting him so hard he had fallen off the chair, and the way he had sprawled on the ground except for his right arm, and cursed under his breath. There was no way Sands could handle a gun right now, and aid their escape.

“El?”

“What?”

“It’s back.”

At first he heard, _He’s back_ , and he listened hard for the sound of footsteps. Then he realized what Sands had truly said, and he felt a sinking sensation. “Fight it,” he urged.

“I am,” Sands said, his face pressed to El’s shoulder. He repeated it, softer. “I am.”

El raised his hand and gently took Sands’ chin. He lifted Sands’ face and pressed a soft kiss to his mouth.

Sands flinched, but he managed a small smile.

But as quickly as it had come, the smile died. “Wait. I forgot. I’m pissed at you.”

El frowned. “Why? For coming to rescue you?”

“For keeping secrets from me.”

His frown deepened. What secrets? His love? Was Sands mad at him for not figuring things out sooner?

“You can tell me later,” he said. “Right now we have to get out of here.” They had been hiding long enough. The majority of Sanchez’s men would be dispersed by now. If they waited too long, the men would begin returning empty-handed to the house. If they were going to get out, it had to be now. “Come on,” he said.

“Good,” Sands said. He pushed himself off El’s chest, standing under his own power.

El reached out and slowly pushed open the door of the storage space, listening carefully. He could not hear anything, and he nodded to himself. “We must be quick,” he said in a low voice. “We have to get out before they come back. Can you keep up?”

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Sands said airily. “Do what you have to do.”

They started to walk out of the storage space. “Wait,” Sands said. “Give me a gun.”

El looked at him. The door had opened enough to allow some light into the space, and he could see Sands’ face now. Beneath the blood and bruises, he saw nothing but determination. “You can’t even hold one,” he said.

“Give me a fucking gun,” Sands snapped. “Don’t you know a man can do anything when it comes to his own survival?” He gave El a thin, crooked smile. “Besides, I need it. And if I don’t get one now, I’m liable to grab one from you later, and with my luck you’d think you were being attacked and you’d shoot me.”

El did not deny this. His nerves were already wound too tight. If he was surprised like that, there was no telling what he would do. He held out one of the pistols, reversing it so he held the barrel. When Sands felt the cool steel, he gripped it tight in his right hand without so much as a wince. In fact, to El’s eye, he seemed to relax a little, even.

“Let’s go,” Sands said.

El gave him a hard grin. “Let’s go.”

Moving together, they stepped out of the storage space, and back into the wine cellar.

To stand right in front of Diego Sanchez. The cartel leader was holding a silver pistol. As El and Sands stopped dead, he cocked his gun. “El Mariachi. Welcome to my home. It is a pleasure to finally meet you.”

********* 

Chapter 22: Leaving

 

Diego Sanchez. With a gun. Nothing else in this world made such a distinctive sound as a gun being cocked.

Oh fuck.

Fuckfuckfuck.

On any other day, Sands might have chanced shooting Sanchez first. Not today. He could barely hold the gun, let alone raise it fast enough to fire and hit Sanchez.

“Drop your weapons,” Sanchez said.

And El, to Sands’ utter shock, said, “No.”

“No?” Diego Sanchez laughed shortly. Not with amusement, but with surprise. “I am standing here aiming a gun at your head, and you tell me no?”

“I do,” El said. “And I will tell you why. Because you could shoot me. I do not doubt that. But in the time it took you to do it, Sands would kill you.”

Sands lifted his chin a little, trying to look the part. It wasn’t a lie – normally. But today was not a normal day. Today he was having trouble just staying conscious.

Sanchez had kept his end of the bargain, all right. Since arriving at the house, Sands had become quite well acquainted with pain. He had no idea how long he had been here, or what time of day (night?) it was.

Sanchez and his goons were very good at dispensing pain. Make a hurt, and then keep worrying at it. Break a finger, and spend half an hour tapping it and wiggling it back and forth. Hammer a fist on a kidney, not once, but a dozen times. All very simple, but effective.

He wondered how long he had before he passed out.

Diego Sanchez cleared his throat. “So it would seem we are at an impasse.”

“No,” El said coldly, “we are not. Put down your gun.”

“And let you shoot me? I think not.”

Sands kept his hands down low, but he tilted the pistol upward, aiming at Sanchez’s head. “We could shoot you anyway,” he offered, then winced. His throat hurt from all the screaming. He wanted a nice shot of booze right now, something warm and silky that would coat the lining of his throat and burn all the way down to his stomach.

“You do not leave me with many options,” Diego Sanchez said. “Either way it seems I am going to die.”

“There is one way you can live,” El said. “Do you wish to hear it?”

Sands said nothing. He hoped his surprise didn’t show on his face. They weren’t going to kill Sanchez? What the fuck?

“It seems I have no choice,” Sanchez said.

“No,” El agreed. “You do not. First, how long until your men come back?”

“Half an hour at least,” said Diego Sanchez. “It will take them some time to find the courage to return with the news that you escaped.”

Sands smiled darkly. “Honed your torture techniques on your own guys, didn’t you? I like it.”

El ignored this, but he swayed a bit to his right, bumping Sands’ left shoulder. Whether it was meant as a show of support or a warning, Sands didn’t know. He did know he was grateful for the physical contact. When they had been hiding in that small space, enclosed in El’s arms, he had felt safe. When El had been holding him, he had barely been able to hear the voice laughing in his head. Not so now.

“Now,” El said, “we put away our guns, and we talk.” It was a reasonable statement, but he sounded anything other than reasonable.

El sounded like he couldn’t wait to start shooting.

And Sands didn’t know about anyone else, but he wasn’t about to give up his gun.

“I think I will hold onto mine,” said Diego Sanchez. “If you wish to talk to me, you can do so with my gun aimed at your head.”

Surreptitiously, hoping Sanchez wouldn’t see it, Sands corrected his aim a little, using the sound of the man’s voice to guide him. His damn hands were trembling, and he kept losing his target.

“How is it,” El asked, “that you escaped the massacre at Escalante’s hacienda?”

Massacre. Despite the pain of his battered body, Sands smiled. He liked that word. He liked the memories it recalled. Gunshots and blood and smoke, and the screams of dying men. Good stuff.

“I was in Juarez that day,” said Diego Sanchez. “Running an errand for my brother.”

“You mean Escalante,” Sands said, remembering that El did not know of the connection between Sanchez and Escalante. Brothers through marriage. He wondered suddenly who had the wife.

“Yes,” said Diego Sanchez. 

“But you came back, and saw what we did,” El said.

“I saw what you did,” Sanchez said, his voice tight with fury. And suddenly Sands wasn’t so sure this trip down memory lane was such a good idea.

“Then you know,” El said, “what we can do to you, your men, your house.”

Sands knew what El was up to then, and he had to fight hard to keep from smiling.

A long, long silence stretched out, further proof that Diego Sanchez was smarter than his predecessors. “You would not have the chance,” he finally said. “My men--”

“Your men would be dead,” El interrupted. Sands had never heard him speak so coldly. “You think I came here alone? You think there aren’t half a dozen of my friends surrounding this house right now?”

He went on for a while, spinning lies. Sands tuned him out. He had a sinking feeling they were going to be standing here talking for some time. Which was not good. He didn’t know how much longer he could stand up. His knees kept wanting to buckle, and every breath hurt. The entire right side of his body screamed with pain from his cracked ribs and the slow bleeding going on under the skin from the beating concentrated in one area. He just wanted to lie down. Maybe moan a little.

Yet if he passed out now, he was going to get them both killed. With an effort he focused his will, intent on staying alert and conscious.

“Very well,” said Diego Sanchez. “What do you propose?”

“Let us go,” El said.

Diego Sanchez laughed. “You know I cannot do that.”

“No one else is around,” said El. “No one needs to know how we left your estate.”

“What do you mean?” Now Sanchez sounded intrigued.

“Tell your men we were hiding under the stairs. You knew this, so you waited for us. When we came out, you killed us.”

Sands nearly choked. This was either the worst idea he had ever heard, or the most brilliant.

“You save face,” El said. “In fact, your prestige grows, because now you have killed El Mariachi and the American spy. And by letting us live, you ensure the survival of your cartel, and yourself. We will not trouble you again. We will simply disappear.”

Sands corrected his aim on the gun. He sure hoped El wasn’t saying what he thought El was saying. Because no way was he letting Diego Sanchez live. Not after what Sanchez had done to him. Furthermore, there was no way he was going into hiding. His home was in Culiacan. He was never going to leave it.

Incredibly, Diego Sanchez seemed to think this idea was worth pursuing. “What if I let you go, but then I set a trap for you a month from now and kill you both?”

“It won’t happen,” El said. “Any trap you set will close upon those who set it, and we will be the ones doing the killing.”

Sands liked the sound of that.

“You sound awfully confident of yourself,” said Sanchez.

“I ought to be. I have been keeping away from men such as yourself for over ten years.”

“I see. Well. What if I agree to let you walk free, but not Agent Sands?”

The silence that followed this question, before El responded, was a short one, but Sands died a little inside during every moment of it. 

“That is unacceptable,” El said, and Sands slumped a little in relief. The voice in his head shrieked with scorn and laughter.

“I paid a very large sum of money for Agent Sands,” said Diego Sanchez. “I cannot just let him walk out of here.”

“Fucker,” Sands snarled. “You don’t own me.”

“I beg to differ,” said Sanchez.

“You will get your money back,” El said.

“What?” Horrified, he half-turned toward El, fully intending to argue this one. Bad move. The world tilted. Voices blurred and deepened. He was going to faint, he just knew it.

In desperation, he did the only thing he could think of. He slammed the pistol in his right hand down onto his left hand.

The pain was scarlet and shocking. He caught his breath, but managed not to scream. His hand throbbed sickly, but he was alert again, standing erect.

El and Sanchez were working out the details of the payment. Automatically Sands used Sanchez’s voice to correct his aim. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Just what the fuck was going on here? They were supposed to believe that Diego Sanchez would let them walk out of here? 

They didn’t even have one hundred thousand pesos – not unless El had a mystery bank account somewhere that Sands knew nothing about. And it pissed him off that El was willing to buy him back from Sanchez, like he was nothing more than a...well, a thing, not a flesh and blood person. Yet there they were, talking about him as if he wasn’t even there, as if he couldn’t hear every word they said. He had paid little attention to the auction in the casino, but he was alert and listening now – and every word they said made his soul shrivel a little more.

The voice in his head loved it. It was still quiet, no words yet but it didn’t need to speak. He knew what it would say. _Well look at that. Guess I was wrong all this time. You really are worth something after all. About one hundred thousand pesos worth. How about that?_

“Fuck you all,” Sands muttered under his breath, and corrected his aim yet again. For a moment he was sorely tempted to turn the gun on El, but then he remembered El was his ticket out of here, so he refrained.

“Very well,” Sanchez finally said. “We have a deal.”

“A deal,” El repeated.

Diego Sanchez chuckled. “I must admit, you are a surprise to me. You are not what I expected.”

“That is because you expected a killer,” El said. “But I am only a mariachi. I have killed when I had to, but I have never liked it.”

Sands had heard enough. They had tortured him repeatedly. They had fucked up his hand so bad he would be crippled for the rest of his life. And now this final humiliation, of being bought and sold, yet again. It was just too much.

_Fuck this._

He said, “Yeah? Well, I’m CIA, and I’ve never had a problem with killing.”

He pulled the trigger.

In the stillness of the room, the sound of the bullet entering Diego Sanchez’s skull was quite clear. The cartel leader fired his own gun, but it was a reflexive motion only as his body spasmed, and his finger tightened about the trigger -- the bullet dug harmlessly into one wall.

A long silence followed the sound of Sanchez’s body hitting the floor. Then El said, “He only missed me by a foot, you know.”

“Yeah, but he did miss you,” Sands said. His knees buckled, and he fell.

****

El managed to catch him before he hit the floor, but this turned out to be not such a good thing. The jolt that went through him as El’s hands brought him up short wrung a sharp, unasked-for scream from his throat. Fire sheeted up his right side, and he twisted in El’s hands until El let him drop to the floor where he could curl up around the hurt and just moan.

“What is it?” El asked, a strange note in his voice. “Where does it hurt?”

“My side,” he gasped. All the while wondering just how long before some of Sanchez’s men came running at the sound of the gunshot. El’s pistol had been silenced – Sanchez’s had not.

El’s fingers gathered the fabric of his shirt, lifting it, revealing the damage. He tensed, breathing shallowly. He probably looked like a fucking sunset down there. Sanchez and his men were brilliant at hitting the same area over and over again, always finding the same spot. What was down there? Kidney, liver, appendix maybe? All of them shaken, not stirred. He was probably bleeding to death inside, and didn’t even know it.

“We need to get you to a hospital,” El said, lowering his shirt.

“No,” he said. “Just--” He let go of El’s pistol. “Unlock me. And get the dagger.”

“What?” El asked, genuine confusion in his voice.

“Your dagger. The scorpion dagger. Sanchez has it. The casino gave it to him when he bought me.” He couldn’t keep the bitter anger from his voice. “I guess they were having a buy-one-get-one-free deal.”

“How do you know that?”

Jesus, but El could be so thick sometimes. “How do you think I know it?” he asked.

“Christ,” El muttered. The mariachi moved away, and Sands heard the sounds of Sanchez’s pockets being turned out. He turned his head so he could press his forehead against the stone of the floor. The coolness seeped into his skin and helped a little with the pounding pain behind his brow.

El came back. The cuffs were unlocked, and he smothered a groan as the metal rings were removed from his wrists. Then El’s hand moved down, over his leg and to his foot. The scorpion dagger and its sheath were slid into his boot. “Now it is yours again,” El said.

“Actually, it belongs to you,” Sands said. “It always has.”

“It is yours,” El said. His voice changed, and became cool again. “Can you sit up? We cannot stay here.”

“Yeah,” he lied. “But answer me one thing first. Who’s out there?”

“What do you mean?” El asked.

“You said you had men outside, watching the house. I didn’t know you had any friends left.”

El was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I don’t.”

Sands considered this. He was still pissed at El for attempting to buy him back, but the loneliness in El’s voice went a long way toward making him feel better. He nodded. “All right. Help me up.”

****

After that, things got crazy. Wild and strange crazy, not insane crazy. Thank Christ for small favors, right?

Consciousness faded in and out. He found himself on the ground a few times, in El’s arms other times. Once he screamed, when his left hand struck something hard and unyielding, and when he was awake he could not stop swearing, just a steady stream of curses rolling unchecked from his lips. 

There was a lot of shooting, he knew that much. He killed a shitload of guys. El killed even more. Yet somehow, they remained unhurt themselves. Something – or someone – was looking out for them. Maybe it was fate. Maybe it was Carolina.

Whatever it was, when they stepped outside and Sands felt the night breeze on his cheek, and knew it was finally over, he found himself untouched. Bullets had droned past his face, splintering into walls right beside him, but none had hit him. For once, life, instead of shitting on him like it usually did, had decided to take pity on him. It was the only explanation he could think of. For sure it was the first time he had ever been involved in a gunfight without himself or any of his partners getting shot.

“Now,” El said. “Smile, and wave.”

“What?” He was leaning heavily on El’s right arm, his head drooping. “What for?”

“Because someone out there is watching you right now, and he is very worried about you.”

What? Someone was out there? Worried about him? Who? What the fuck was El talking about?

He was about to ask these questions out loud when he realized he already knew the answers. “Oh Christ, El, you didn’t,” he groaned.

“He wanted to come,” El said. “I couldn’t stop him.”

“He’s a fucking kid!” Sands snapped, anger giving him the strength to push away from El’s supporting bulk and stand up straight. “You expect me to believe you couldn’t make him stay at home where he belongs?”

“I do,” El said calmly. “And you know why.”

Yeah, he did know why. “Shit,” he breathed. “You sure do like to live dangerously, don’t you?”

“I was taking a chance,” El agreed. “But I felt it was worth it.”

“Worth what?” he demanded. “Getting Chiclet killed?”

“What secrets do you think I have been keeping from you?” El asked.

He was thrown for a moment by the change in subject. Then he shook his head. “No. Not now. I just want to get out of here.”

“Later then,” El said.

The mariachi’s arm slid about his shoulders again. They started walking forward. Sands concentrated on staying upright. Every step was an agony, but he forced himself to go on. He could not faint, and let Chiclet see him that way. Maybe he didn’t have much dignity left, but he refused to let the boy see El carrying him like a fucking baby.

“Sands.”

“What?”

“Do you know where we are?”

“Diego Sanchez’s house,” he said with weary sarcasm.

“Yes. And you have been here before.”

“I have? When?” His life was divided now into two very distinct eras. W.E. and W.O.E. With Eyes, and Without Eyes. Sometimes the days of W.E. felt like ancient history, events and people and important dates turned into dusty artifacts of someone else’s life. The blank, black hole of W.O.E. was much clearer.

“We came here when we were hunting Escalante. This house belonged to Ajedrez.”

Sands laughed shortly. “What are the odds?”

“Here,” El said. They stopped walking. Sands felt his knees try to buckle again, and with a snarl, pushed himself upright. “This is the end of the driveway. Chiclet will come pick us up.”

“You let him drive? Goddamn, El.” A crystal clear image of the kid driving right off the side of a cliff sprang into his head.

“Why not?” asked the mariachi. “I let you drive.”

“That’s real funny,” he panted. Christ it was cold out here.

“Wait.” El’s arm left his shoulders, just enough for him to realize El was stretching to one side in order to reach something. He heard a rustling. Leaves? Then the welcome weight of El’s arm returned. “Do you remember the first time we came here?”

“Yeah,” he said. He was going to faint in another minute; he could feel it.

El’s hand brushed the hair back from his face. Something was placed behind his ear. “You had a flower in your hair that night.”

A flower. He was standing here dying, and El had just put a fucking flower in his hair. He wanted to laugh, but he didn’t have the strength for it.

“You told me your name that night,” El said. In the distance, a car’s engine swelled, and grew louder. Chiclet, otherwise known as the fucking cavalry, coming to their rescue.

“Biggest mistake I ever made,” Sands sighed.

“No,” El said, and he sounded very serious. “Your biggest mistake was thinking you meant nothing to me, and giving yourself up to Sanchez.”

That was nice. He knew he should say something in response, something suitably warm and fuzzy, but suddenly speech was impossible. A dim roaring filled his ears, and then there was nothing.

****

He woke up to find himself lying across the backseat of the car. Something soft was beneath his head as a pillow. It smelled like El and the edge of a button dug into his cheek, so he guessed it was one of El’s shirts. More fabric bound his right wrist tightly, easing some of the pain there.

Silence from the front seat. He imagined Chiclet sitting twisted around to stare at him, watching him carefully for signs of distress. El would be checking the rearview mirror often, his mouth pressed into a grim line.

He wondered if the flower was still in his hair. What color was it?

“You know,” he said, and was shocked at how slurred his voice was, “we really gotta stop doing this.”

“Señor,” Chiclet said urgently. He could have been talking to either of them.

“Stop doing what?” El asked over his shoulder.

“This,” Sands said. “You driving away from the scene of our latest disaster, with me sitting here feeling like shit. Next time, I’ll drive, and you can be the one groaning.”

El grinned. “All right. It’s a deal.”

Chiclet, however, was not amused. “Next time? There isn’t going to be a next time!”

Silence filled the car for a long moment, then El Mariachi and Sands began to laugh.

Chiclet made a few bewildered sounds, then subsided into silence. 

Sands did not laugh long. It hurt too goddamn much. Behind the wheel, El stopped laughing too. “We will be at the hospital in a few minutes.”

“No,” he said. “No hospital. We’ll be sitting ducks there. Just find a doctor who keeps late hours and pay him in cash.”

“No, my friend,” El said. “That will not work this time.”

“Well you better find a way to make it work,” Sands snapped. “Because if you try and make me go to a hospital, I’ll fucking gut you.” He had no intention of submitting himself to the will of doctors dressed in white, with their antiseptic smells and their falsely solicitous voices. No way. No fucking way.

He remembered himself, age seven, hesitantly approaching his mother. He barely knew her, this strange woman who was not home often, and who sniffled all the time like she had a cold. _Mama, I think I need to see a doctor. My stomach hurts a lot._ Hands pressed to his belly. Hoping, desperately. When Doctor Peterson asked him what was wrong, he could tell, and then Doctor Peterson would call the cops and they would come take Uncle Tommy away, they would take him away too, and let him live with another family, a family where the parents cared and nobody made you do things you didn’t want to do.

His mother had told him to go outside and play.

No, no more doctors. Not for him. Dr. Guevara was just the icing on the cake, the final warning. _Doctors are not to be trusted, fuckmook. Don’t you get it yet?_

“We can be back home by morning,” Chiclet said in a low voice to El.

“I don’t think he has that long,” El whispered back.

“Oh, he might surprise you yet,” Sands said. God, how he hated it when they talked about him like he wasn’t there. He was blind, not deaf.

“There are doctors in Sinaloa de Leyva,” El said. “We will find one of them.” The car slowed down, and made a left turn. He raised his voice slightly. “Not a hospital.”

“Damn straight,” Sands sighed. He was fading again. Unconsciousness beckoned.

What the hell. Why not? He gave himself up to it, and sank.

*********

Chapter 23: Healing

 

The doctors in Sinaloa de Leyva – or at least the doctor El chose – were used to seeing injuries such as Sands’. Living so close to a cartel’s base of operations, they had ample opportunity to see men who had run afoul of Diego Sanchez.

Unsurprisingly, the doctor wanted nothing to do with them at first. “Please, señores. If they found out...”

“They will not find out,” El said. “There is no more cartel here. Now, will you help us?”

The doctor’s eyes widened, then he opened the door to allow them in.

They told Chiclet to wait out in the hall, despite his angry protests. At last El said, “Do you think he would want you to see this?”

The boy stared at him through wide eyes. “You’ll come back?” And El realized his reluctance to accept his banishment to the hall was not entirely due to his concern for Sands. Chiclet, quite simply, was afraid to be alone. After what he had witnessed while waiting on the hilltop, El was not at all surprised.

“I will come out as soon as I know something,” he said. He patted the boy’s shoulder. “I promise.”

Chiclet scowled, but he sat down, and waited.

****

The doctor’s name was Roberto Lopez. As he washed his hands, he looked up at El. “Is it true? What you said? That the cartel is gone?”

El nodded. “We have destroyed them.”

“We.” Lopez dried his hands and looked at Sands, who was unconscious on the examining table. “You and your friend?”

“Sí,” El said. “Junto.” _Together._

“The people of this country are in debt to you, then,” said the doctor. “To you both.” He reached out to remove the dirty blindfold about the upper half of Sands’ face.

El’s hand shot out, and he grabbed the doctor’s wrist. Startled, Lopez looked up at him.

El shook his head. “Don’t.”

Lopez gave him a long look, then nodded. He started to pull his hand back, and El let go of him.

“All right,” the doctor said. He sounded brisk now, and professional. He gave El a cool nod. “Stand back. I need room.”

****

The sun had been up for an hour when El went out into the hall. Chiclet was dozing, his chin resting on his chest. When he heard the door open, however, his head shot up. “How is he?”

El gave the boy a small smile. “He is still sleeping, but he will be fine. As soon as he wakes up, we will leave.”

Chiclet’s brow furrowed. “So soon?”

El sighed. He had just fought this same argument with the doctor. It was not a good idea to move Sands, but it was just too dangerous to stay here. With the destruction of Diego Sanchez’s cartel, other drug lords would rush in to fill the vacuum. Their first task would be to sift through the carnage and take what was left, like all good vultures did. That meant staying anywhere near Caimanero and the pink-and-glass drug house was a very bad idea.

“That soon,” El said. “Go back to sleep. It will be a few hours yet.”

****

El was there when Sands woke, but Sands was not.

It took El a long time to realize this. At first, he had no idea. He merely smiled at his waking friend, and gave Sands’ right hand a squeeze. “You’re back.”

Sands made a neutral noise that could have been anything from, “Here I am,” to “Fuck off.”

“We are in Sinaloa de Leyva,” El said. “At the home of a doctor. He wanted you to stay here for a few days, but I told him we could not. We can go home as soon as you’re ready.”

“I’m ready now,” Sands said. His voice was still hoarse, and deeper than usual, a result of all the screaming he had done, no doubt. He pulled his hand free of El’s grasp. “Get me the fuck out of here.”

“Chiclet is waiting out in the hall,” El said. “He would really like to see you.”

Sands was silent for a while, then he said, “So? Let him stay out there.”

El frowned. “You don’t want to see him?”

“First of all,” Sands drawled, “I can’t _see_ a fucking thing, and you of all people should that, fuckwit. Secondly, let the kid stay out in the hall. Kids don’t belong in places like this.”

Something was off about his speech, El suddenly realized. It was like he was listening to someone doing an impression of Sands. They would almost have it for a few seconds, then they would lose it again.

“All right,” he said. “Here.” He took hold of Sands’ right hand again, so he could help the agent sit up.

Immediately Sands stiffened and yanked his hand away. “Don’t you fucking touch me,” he snarled in that hoarse voice that was a few notes lower than his normal one.

El’s blood ran cold. He suddenly realized he knew that voice. He had heard it once before.

_Stay back! Don’t you fucking touch me!_

_If that’s what you want._

_Yeah right. Since when has it mattered what I want?_

This was not Sands. His friend was not here right now. This was the voice of the madness, the voice of the other that lived in Sands’ head. 

“What do you want?” he whispered. He had backed away an involuntary step in horror, and now he glanced around the room. He was wearing his guns, but Sands still had the scorpion dagger. If Sands chose to attack him now, things would turn ugly, very fast.

“What do you think I want? I want to go home,” Sands said petulantly, as if this was the most obvious thing in the world. Groaning, he sat up. He swayed forward, and his head hung low. “Oh shit.”

“Maybe we should stay a day,” El suggested tentatively. If he could get Sands to go back to sleep, maybe when the agent woke up the next time, he would be in control again. “It’s still too soon.”

“Fuck that,” Sands said. “I’m getting out of here.” He turned and swung his legs off the cot where he had been lying. He took a deep breath and stood up. “There. See?” His lips parted, and he gave El a terrifying smile. “Can’t keep me down for long.”

The door of the small recovery room opened, and Chiclet’s bright face peeked inside. “I heard voices,” he exclaimed.

Both El and Sands turned toward the door, but Sands had to turn to his right in order to do so. The moment he did, all the color left his face. He uttered a breathless cry, and his legs folded beneath him, spilling him to the floor.

Chiclet hurried forward, and El pointed at him. “No! Stay where you are.” Ignoring the boy’s wide-eyed confusion, El cautiously crouched down. “Sands?”

Sands rolled onto his back. His face was a mask of pain. “El?”

It was his voice. The _other_ was gone. Slumping with relief, El went to him. “I’m here.” He helped Sands sit up, leaning back against the mattress of the cot. “You fell.”

Sands laughed, a sound completely devoid of humor that broke off on a gasp of pain. “I fell. Such a polite way of putting it.” He let his head fall back on the mattress. “What did you give me? I can’t feel anything.”

“Morphine,” El said. He looked up at Chiclet and motioned for the boy to fetch the doctor. “You were in a lot of pain.”

“Yeah...” Sands swallowed hard. “It came out to play, didn’t it?” Before El could respond he said, “Don’t lie to me. I know it did. You fucking drugged me, and I couldn’t stop it.”

“I’m sorry,” El said. In truth he had not thought about the consequences, when he had given Lopez the consent to administer the painkillers. His only thought had been to make sure Sands was not suffering. 

“You’re sorry. Christ, El. You’re the sorriest mariachi I ever met,” Sands sighed. 

El caught his breath. His first instinct was to be pissed at the insult, but as was so often the case with Sands, following his instinct was not a good idea. So he cleared his throat and said, “Well, how many mariachis have you known?”

Sands shook his head. “Point taken. And besides, I think Fideo wins that prize, not you.”

At the mention of his former friend, El sobered. “I am sorry,” he said, more sincerely this time. “I didn’t think what the drugs would do to you.”

“Don’t let it happen again,” Sands warned. He shrugged his left shoulder, feeling the sling there that bound his left hand to his chest. “What’s the verdict? And don’t lie to me.”

It was the second time in as many minutes that he had said that. El frowned, remembering that Sands had accused him of keeping secrets. “I don’t lie to you.”

“Yes, you do,” Sands said. “But that isn’t the point. The point is, how fucked am I?”

“You are not fucked,” El said. “You will be fine.” He looked down. It was one of the hardest things he had ever done, speaking his next words. “The doctor says you will regain some of the use of your hand, but you will never play the guitar again.”

For a single moment grief stood out on Sands’ features, stark and terrible. Then he sighed, and the moment was gone. “Well,” he said. “At least you were honest with me.”

“Doctors have been wrong about that before,” El said. “For both of us.” He wanted to give Sands hope. And he needed that hope too, for himself. He could not bear to think of the silence that lay in Sands’ future. 

Sands did not reply to this.

El frowned, but Chiclet and the doctor arrived then, and there was no more time for talking, anyway.

****

They arrived back at the house in Culiacan shortly before sunset. They could have been there sooner, but El had driven slowly, out of deference for Sands’ condition.

Under the setting sun, the house looked peaceful. Except for the broken windows, there was no sign of the destruction within. El glanced at Chiclet. “Go on home,” he said. “You can come by tomorrow. Spend tonight with your family.”

Chiclet nodded and got out of the car. His bike was still propped up along the porch, where he had left it yesterday morning.

El shook his head. It didn’t seem possible that so much had happened in just two days.

He twisted around in his seat and looked at Sands. “You ready?”

“Sure,” the agent said wearily. “Have I mentioned how sick I am of this? I’m tired of being the one getting the crap beat out of him.”

“You weren’t the one with the concussion for three days,” El reminded him as he opened his door and stepped out of the car. He opened the back door.

“I guess that was my lucky day,” Sands said. “All I got was the skeletons in the closet coming out to play.” He stumbled out of the car.

El was ready for him. “And who got shot at the casino? Me. Not you.”

“I think I win that one, too,” Sands muttered, as they stumbled up the walk.

“All right,” El said. “But I win this one. Escalante shot me twice, and you only once.”

“Okay,” Sands said, so low El could barely hear it. “I’ll give you that one.” He was barely conscious anymore.

“I win,” El said in triumph, and picked Sands up. Carrying the now-unconscious agent in his arms, he walked up to the house.

****

Over the next two days, El remained on his guard, but Sands’ madness did not resurface. Sands slept most of the time, and although he refused to take anything for pain, he did grudgingly swallow the doctor’s antibiotics. El thought about switching the pills once, but he didn’t dare. When Sands found out – and he _would_ find out – he would be furious.

Chiclet came to visit, but not as often as El had expected. Going along on the quest to rescue Sands had changed something fundamental in him. He had lost the last of his innocence, El thought. In a way he was glad the boy did not come around so much – he felt too guilty about this to look Chiclet in the eye any more.

He cleaned the house a little, although only the most basic of things, like throwing away the rotting food and picking up the broken glass. He hadn’t the heart to do anything else. Most of the time he sat with Sands, wondering who would speak to him when the agent woke up next.

On the third morning he rose from his bed with a sense of determination. Today was the day.

****

He shut himself in the kitchen, making breakfast. Yesterday the priest had come by with groceries and apologies. The people of the village, the priest had said, were concerned about their fate. What would happen to them now?

Nothing would happen to them, El had said. It was over with.

He put the food on a tray, nibbling absently on a piece of bacon. His stomach rumbled in a content little way. He shouldered open the swinging door to the kitchen, and went into Sands’ bedroom. “Good morning.”

Sands was awake, reclining on several pillows. Black silk covered his eyes, and he had taken the wrapping off his right wrist. The fabric of the sling was very white against his tanned chest, and the hectic color of the bruising on his abdomen. “What?”

“I made you breakfast,” El said. He sat on the edge of the bed, the tray on his lap. He knew Sands had to be sick of eating soup. He remembered how good it had felt to eat solid food again after days of liquids in the hospital, after the gunfight at Escalante’s hacienda. 

Sands sniffed disinterestedly. “So?”

“Eggs, bacon, and pancakes,” said El. He munched on another strip of bacon.

“I’m not hungry,” Sands said.

“You need to eat,” El said.

“Fuck you.”

El used the edge of the fork to cut off a mouthful of the pancakes, and pushed it through the pond of syrup gathered on the edge of the plate. “Here. Try some.”

Sands batted his hand away with a snarl. The fork went flying, sending pancake and syrup everywhere. “Don’t treat me like a fucking invalid!”

El wiped at his face and the stickiness on his cheek. He said nothing.

Sands turned his head to one side, deliberately ignoring him.

El set the tray down on the floor. The fork lay near the bathroom door, one layer of pancake still clinging to the silver tines, the other one disappeared, only god knew where. A small puddle of syrup was pooling beneath the fork.

He looked down. Two perfectly round drops of syrup trembled on Sands’ stomach, just above his navel.

El hesitated. Then he leaned down, and carefully lapped at the syrup with his tongue. 

Sands flinched. “What the fuck are you doing?” His fingers twined in El’s hair and pulled sharply, forcing El to lift his head up. His wrist was not healed enough to let him do this easily, however, and he had to let go right away.

“Cleaning up the mess you made,” El said. He bent down again, kissing and nibbling at the sugary place on Sands’ stomach.

“Don’t,” Sands said.

El paused, then took a chance. He continued doing what he was doing.

Sands let his right hand fall back to his side.

“You don’t have to do anything,” El said, barely picking up his head, so his lips brushed Sands’ skin when he spoke. “Just let me.”

He reached blindly for the sheet with one hand, and pushed it down. He spread gentle, featherlight kisses over Sands’ stomach, kissing every bruise, every place where those men had hurt him. Sands tensed beneath him, but El was careful, so very careful. He wanted to kiss those hurts, to prove that _he_ would never hurt.

Lower he went, kissing, loving, showing without words what he felt for this man he shared a bed with.

Sands did not make a sound. At the end he caught his breath, and his back arched a little, but he remained silent.

El sat up, frowning. He said, “You didn’t have to keep quiet.” He stretched out on the bed so he was lying on his side next to Sands, his head on the edge of the pillow. “You don’t have to hide anything from me.”

Sands said nothing. He just lay there. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking.

The time had finally come. It had taken so much, so long, to get here. El wanted nothing to spoil this moment.

He sat up on one elbow, so he could look down into Sands’ face. He kissed Sands, once on the little furrow in his brow, and then again on the mouth. “I love you,” he said.

Sands turned away. “Yeah, right.”

“I am serious,” El said. “Do you think I would say those words lightly?”

“I think you would say it if you thought it would make me feel better,” Sands said bitterly.

“But I know it doesn’t,” El said. “It makes you feel worse.”

Sands said nothing to this, but his jaw clenched.

“Has no one ever said that to you before, as I have?” El asked. He was afraid he knew the answer, but he hoped he was wrong.

“What do you think?” Sands said, the bitterness more evident than ever in his tone.

“Then I am the first,” El said, and kissed him again.

“Stop it. You don’t love me,” Sands said. He pushed at El’s chest with his right hand, but it was an ineffectual push, without much strength behind it.

“I do,” El said. “I love you. I know it is hard for you to believe, but--”

“Stop it!” Sands shoved him hard, knocking him onto his back.

El sat up straight. “Why?” he asked. “Tell me why I don’t love you.”

“Because,” Sands snapped. His right hand remained curled in a fist. A tremor ran through him.

“Tell me why,” El repeated.

“Because...” Sands tossed his head. “No,” he muttered, not to El, but to the voice in his mind. “Shut up.”

El took his face between both his palms. “Don’t listen to it,” he said. “Listen to me. I love you.”

“I don’t believe you,” Sands whispered.

“You don’t have to,” El said. “I believe it, and that is enough for the both of us.” He pressed a firm kiss to Sands’ mouth.

“I don’t believe you,” Sands said. He reached up with his good arm and seized a handful of El’s hair. He dragged El’s head downward and captured El’s mouth in a burning kiss. “I don’t believe you, and I don’t love you.”

El’s heart sang, proof that there was still music in his life, after all. “I know,” he said, between kisses. “I know.”

*********

Chapter 24: Loving

 

Noon found them still in bed.

He had asked once about Chiclet, worried that the boy would find them here, naked sweat-slicked limbs still entwined. El had shushed him, saying it was Tuesday, a school day. That was the last time they had spoken, and that had been a few hours ago. Words had not been needed on this morning.

He was lying flat on his back. El’s head rested on his left hip, below the sling and his damaged hand. El’s left arm was draped across his thighs, El’s fingers idly tracing patterns on his right hip. It tickled a little, but Sands didn’t move. At that moment, it didn’t matter that his hand felt like someone had shoved it full of broken glass. It didn’t matter that he had no eyes, or that he couldn’t see. Right then, at that particular moment in time, he had never felt so content.

El began to croon something, a soft song. The lyrics were in English, but the mariachi only sang maybe one word in three. The tune was nothing Sands had heard before.

El slid down and scooted up, so he could lay with his head on the pillow and his cheek resting on Sands’ shoulder. He pressed a kiss to the patch of skin he could reach. “Que quieres en la vida?”

_What do you want in life?_

Sands let out a long, slow breath. “I don’t know,” he said. “No sé.”

He wanted.... What did he want?

He wanted things to remain like this forever. These feelings of contentment, of peace. The feeling of belonging, something he had never known before. The silence in his head. The security of knowing El was there beside him. El’s breath warm on his skin. To hell with the rest of the world. Why couldn’t he stay like this forever?

“What about you?” he asked. “What do you want?”

“You,” El said. “Only you.” The mariachi’s arm slid about him, El’s fingers coming to rest lightly on his stomach. Three days ago he had been beaten so badly he was still pissing blood, but today none of that seemed to matter. El knew how to touch him, how to coax pleasure from his body. El was the one.

And then El said those words again, the words that filled him with a blend of scornful disbelief and trembling hope. _I love you._

“Why?” he asked. “I’m a psychotic murderer. You can’t love me.”

“That is who you were,” El said, and pressed another kiss atop his shoulder. “That is not who you are. Not anymore. Now tell me you love me.”

He did. He said the words, but they still felt strange in his mouth. He had never in his life said them to anyone and meant them. He didn’t even know what love was. Was it really love that he felt? How could he know for sure?

“El.” Those good feelings were leaking away. “Why did you lie to me?”

The mariachi went very still. “What do you mean?”

Thinking about it still made him angry, but the emotion was muted, and not as strong as it had been. It was still mixed, however, with deep hurt, and wounded betrayal. “Why didn’t you tell me about the letter Belinda Harrison wrote Barillo?”

El sucked in a sharp breath. “How did you find out about that?”

The fact that El did not deny it made him angrier. “Does it matter? Diego Sanchez told me. Why didn’t you? You knew about it, didn’t you?”

El was silent for a long time. Then he rolled onto his back. “I knew,” he said, to the ceiling.

“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” Sands demanded. He sat up, angry enough now that he scarcely felt any pain. “Don’t you think I had a right to know?”

El sat up, too. The sheet rustled and slid along his knee as the mariachi pulled it up, hiding his nakedness. As if it mattered. “I was going to tell you,” El said. “But she nearly killed you, and I was hurt myself. By the time we were healthy enough to talk about it, it didn’t seem that important.”

“Important to who?” Sands cried. “This is my _life_ we’re talking about here!”

“Lorenzo had just died,” El went on, as if he hadn’t interrupted. “I held myself responsible for that. Fideo blamed me, too. I started to think I was bad luck to all my friends. I tried to find ways to make you want to leave.”

“You mean you made my life miserable,” Sands said. He remembered how baffled he had been all last summer, trying to understand the petty torments El had pulled. “But that isn’t the point. The point is, you knew about the letter, and you didn’t tell me. You expect me to trust you, but you give me no reason to.”

El did not respond to this. He merely rose from the bed and walked out of the room.

“Fine!” Sands shouted after him, cursing the fact that he didn’t yet dare chase after El. If he tried, he’d probably collapse in the hall. “But you can’t run away from the truth!”

Footsteps sounded as El’s bare feet marched back into the room. The bed sank as the mariachi sat. Something rustled, and then El grabbed his right hand and thrust a folded square of paper at his fingers. “Here,” El said. “Here is the letter.”

Sands crushed it in his fist. “That’s great, El. Maybe if I try real hard I can feel the indentations the printer left behind, and then I can read it.”

El snatched it from him. In a very cold voice, he read the letter aloud.

It said just what Diego Sanchez had said it did. The warning about the payoff money. His badge number. An urgent desire to be taken seriously. _I trust you will handle this matter with the speed and discretion it requires._

Handle this matter. 

Oh, he had been handled, all right.

“Are you happy now?” El asked, when he had finished reading it. “I found it on the day she came to the house. Lorenzo discovered the hiding place in her bookcase, and I found the letter. I showed it to no one.”

Sands said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to speak just yet.

“I wonder sometimes,” El said, “what would have happened if I had set out to find you before the coup.” He laid the letter aside and moved closer. “If I could have stopped it.”

El’s fingers touched his face. They lifted the blindfold, just enough for El to lean down and kiss the place where the hollow of his eyesocket began. He flinched away. “Don’t.” It was bad enough that he tortured himself constantly with regrets and second guesses; he could not bear to think that El did the same.

“If there was a way,” El breathed, and kissed him again. Lower this time, on the scar running across his cheek, the result of his first visit to Sanchez’s house, when it hadn’t yet belonged to Sanchez.

“Don’t,” Sands said again, louder. 

“I should have told you,” El said. “My silence was not deliberate. I want you to trust me.” Now the kiss was placed on the corner of his mouth.

“I do,” he said. “God knows why, but I trust you.”

“Then trust me to love you,” El said, and claimed his mouth in a possessive kiss.

El trailed kisses down his neck. Sands tipped his head back. “All right,” he whispered, and surrendered.

****

That evening, with El’s help, he hobbled outside and sat on the porch. Literally. The chairs had been smashed into kindling, and there was nowhere else to sit. El had told him about the destruction inside the house, but until that moment he hadn’t realized just how thorough Sanchez’s men had been.

He sat on the porch boards, leaning up against the house, sifting through a pile of wood splinters leftover from the chair he had once favored. “We need to discuss this whole ‘you buying me’ thing.”

He could practically hear El flush. The mariachi was standing, or maybe sitting on the porch railing, strumming at his guitar. “I didn’t know what else to say.”

“Why didn’t you just shoot him?” Sands snapped. “You fucking humiliated me, El.”

“He had a gun aimed at my head,” El said, sounding rather pissed off himself. The music came to an abrupt end. “What did you expect me to do?”

“Since when have you let that stop you?”

“I didn’t mean it,” El said. “I only said it so we could get out of there.”

“Well you should have thought of something else to say! Christ, El, you don’t even know what you did, do you?”

“Evidently not,” the mariachi said stiffly. “If you really think I would have treated you like I owned you, then you don’t know me at all.”

Sands sighed. All right. Time to let it go. No, he didn’t think El would have done that to him. And now El knew how pissed off he was at the whole thing, and that was really the point, wasn’t it? 

“So what happens now?” he asked. “A new cartel takes over and we go shoot them up, too?”

“Why not,” El said, as if they were discussing whether or not to go out for a few beers. He picked out a few isolated notes on the guitar.

“Well, why not,” Sands muttered. He turned over the chunk of wood he was holding. It had one fat end and one pointy end, and he thought it would make a fair weapon if push ever came to shove.

El continued to noodle away on the guitar. Not a whole song, or anything. Just a few notes here, a few notes there. The random music made Sands feel restless. He would have preferred it if El played a proper tune.

He reached down into his boot and pulled out the scorpion dagger. The music coming from El’s direction faltered for a moment, then continued on.

Sands gripped the chunk of wood between his knees and brought the dagger to it. Just a touch-up on the right, but the left side was too oblique, and would need to be evened out. A little off the top, too. Maybe slim it down. The hilt wasn’t that thick.

El stopped screwing around and settled into a real song. Something of moderate tempo, not too mournful, not too energetic. Sands set the dagger down, felt along the chunk of wood, frowned, and picked up the knife again.

The first song ended. A second began. And then another. At some point, El began to sing. Mariachi’s Greatest Hits. Sands thought of the piano inside, a ruin of wood and ivory, like his hand. Fuck them all, he had already decided. He was going to play the guitar again, and shoot, and hold a fork so he could cut his own food, and do all the things he had once taken for granted. He didn’t care how long it took. He was not going to be a cripple. No one else was going to exert control over his life.

He ran his fingers over the wood and grinned. Not quite, but close enough. It would do. He held it up. “Here you go, El. You can have your dagger back now.”

The railing creaked, and a guitar string twanged in protest as the instrument was set down. El stepped toward him and took the chunk of wood. “What is this? You did this?”

“No, Mother Nature did,” Sands said. “I just found it.”

“It is incredible,” El said. “It looks just like the original.”

The grin was back. “Really?” The moment the word was out of his mouth he winced. Christ he sounded like a kid, eager for praise.

“Really,” El said. “I didn’t know you could carve.”

Sands shrugged, trying not to let his delight show. “Neither did I.”

****

Later that night, as they lay together, El kissed each finger of his right hand. “Such talented fingers,” the mariachi whispered. “I knew that had to be true, for how else could you bring me to such heights, but now I see the hidden talents, as well.”

When El said things like that, anything seemed possible. “Yeah, well just you wait and see what I can do when I have both my hands back.”

“I will wait,” El said solemnly. 

****

The next afternoon Chiclet came by. Sands was sitting on the porch, waiting for him. When the boy mounted the porch steps, Sands beckoned him over. His wrist hurt from all the activity of the day before, so he quickly lowered his hand back to his lap. “Come here.”

The kid walked over, a little reluctantly, and Sands thought, _I don’t even know what he looks like anymore._

“What you did was very stupid,” he said.

Chiclet said nothing.

“I don’t ever want to hear of you doing anything like that again, or I will kick your ass myself. Is that understood?”

“Sí,” Chiclet whispered.

“Now go bug El, or something.” When the boy continued to just stand there, Sands flapped a hand at him. “Go on. Fuck off.”

“I was so worried!” Chiclet exclaimed. “I had to do it.”

“I know,” Sands said.

The boy closed the distance between them, knelt, and gave him a cautious hug. He stiffened, but it didn’t hurt as much as he had anticipated, so he was able to relax and even half-heartedly return the hug. “I’m fine,” he said. “I’m always fine.”

Chiclet didn’t say anything to this. Little Chiclet, who had lost the last of his innocence a few days ago. Who had started losing it the moment a bleeding CIA agent had reached out and grabbed him off his bike on a dusty street.

“Where were you going that day?” he asked.

“What?” Chiclet asked, and it suddenly occurred to Sands that the boy spoke in English now, that he had done so for quite some time. He couldn’t even remember when that had happened.

“The Day of the Dead. Where were you going on your bike?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember. To watch the parade, I think.”

To watch a parade. Shit. It didn’t get much more innocent than that. And then he had come along and grabbed the kid and fucked up Chiclet’s life. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Por que?” Chiclet asked, lapsing into his native tongue.

“Why? Because…shit, because I am, all right? For everything.”

Chiclet seemed to think about this for a long time. Then he shrugged, the movement communicating itself to Sands where their arms still touched. “It’s okay. I’m glad you found me that day.”

“You’re glad. Oh my Christ.” He gave the boy a bit of a push, trying to get him to stand up. “Don’t ever say that again.”

“It’s true,” Chiclet said.

“Listen,” Sands said. “I want you to do something for me.” He gave the boy very explicit directions, then waited as Chiclet walked away.

It was funny, the way he felt right now. _I am putting my affairs in order_ , he thought.

The screen door banged, and Chiclet came back. “Señor?” He sounded breathless, as if he had either run through the house, or as if he didn’t know what to expect next.

“Give it to me.” Sands held his hand out.

Chiclet gave him the leather billfold. His CIA badge. The last tie he had to his past. He flipped it open and ran his thumb over the plastic laminate. Even after all this time, he could clearly remember what it looked like.

“And the truth shall set you free,” he whispered.

He closed the badge and handed it out. “I want you to have this. You know I love you, right?”

Chiclet uttered a strange little hiccupping noise, and he braced himself for the fierce hug he knew was coming.

Strangely enough, this one didn’t hurt at all.

****

Two months later, he decided it was time.

It was the middle of June. Time to be moving on.

He was healed. Almost. He could use his left hand, although sometimes the pain left him breathless. But he persisted, flexing his fingers and making a fist and picking things up until he felt sick with pain and had to stop. He had not tried to play guitar. El had suggested one night that he could still use the slide, perhaps, and for some reason that had pissed him off so badly he had punched El right in the nose.

 _Two and a half years_ , he thought. _My, how time flies when you’re having fun._

He wanted to sneak off in the middle of the night, maybe with a scribbled note left behind, but he couldn’t. He owed El the truth.

So one fine morning, as they sat on the back porch, he said, “I have to go away.”

El had been picking at the ever-present guitar on his lap, but the music abruptly stopped. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, I have to go away.”

“Why? Where?”

“I don’t know where,” he said truthfully. “As to why…” He sighed. “I can’t stay here. Like this. Not as I am.”

El put the guitar down. It thonked on the porch boards. “As you are? What are you talking about? Do you mean the cartels?”

“No,” he snapped. Christ, El just didn’t get it. “Listen to me,” he drawled. “I am not a whole person, El. And I am not going to be, as long as I stay here.” He paused. He had spent many long hours thinking about this, and he knew he was right.

“I’m not alone in my head, El. And I need to be. And the only way that is going to happen is if I beat it. If I crush it out. Make it go away. It’s going to be messy and violent and…and I don’t want you or anyone else getting hurt. So I need to go away for a while. So I can do this.”

“I understand,” El said.

Which was bullshit because El didn’t understand. Nobody understood. But it was nice of El to pretend.

“But I can’t let you do it,” El said.

“ _Let_ me?” he repeated.

“I can’t let you,” El said again.

“It’s not your decision,” Sands shot back. “It’s mine.”

“No!” El said, his voice surprisingly loud. “It is _our_ decision to make. It affects both of us. Together.”

That was the kind of sentimental bullshit that belonged on the inside of a greeting card. “What’s with all the ‘us’ talk? You make it sound like we’ve got this long and glorious future ahead of us.”

El said nothing.

“What do you want out of this?” Sands demanded. “What do you want from me? This isn’t a movie, El. This is real life. The lame do not walk again, the blind do not see, and the insane do not get better!” He stood up, intending to go inside. He would grab some money and some extra ammunition, and then he was walking out the door.

“But you could,” El protested.

“No!” He pointed angrily at the mariachi. “Don’t you get it yet? There is no ‘better!’ There is no happy ending for us.”

“You are only saying that because you are afraid,” El said.

“Oh, I’m afraid,” Sands said, speaking lightly. “I’m afraid that one morning I’m going to wake up and discover I slit your throat while someone else was in charge of my brain. I’m afraid that one day I’m going to eat my own gun because I think the sound of the gunshot will drown the voice out for a little bit. Do you see what I’m getting at, El? Can you even attempt to understand this?”

“If those things were going to happen, they would have happened long before now,” El said. “You are only using them as an excuse.”

Sands shook his head. “Fuck you. I’m going.”

El moved. Off the railing, across the porch, to stand in his way. “No you’re not.”

“Are you going to try and stop me?” he asked, still in that light-hearted tone of voice, as if they weren’t talking about anything of importance.

“I agree with you,” El said, “that you must fight the madness in your head. But that is a battle we will fight together. You cannot win it alone.”

“Yeah? How the hell do you know?”

“I know because I have watched you,” El said. “All this time, when you have fought alone. You win the battle, but only for a time. Always it comes back. The only way you can hope to win is if we fight it together.”

El went on talking. Sands just listened. He had known what he had to do – go away and do battle with himself – but he had been not at all convinced that he would win. Now here was El, talking about standing beside him, acting as though there was nothing more in the world that he wanted to do than help his insane lover.

“Why?” he asked. El still stood between him and the door, but he could turn around and walk off the porch any time he wanted. Walk on down the driveway, into town and beyond, walk and keep walking, never looking back. 

“Because I love you,” El said simply, as if this explained everything.

Sands bit his lip. These days he was more willing to believe when El said that, but there was still doubt and scorn in his heart. Part of him kept waiting for El to pull the rug out from under him. That part of him belonged to the seven-year old child who had had everything secure ripped away from him one horrible summer. He knew that, but he couldn’t let himself take the final step and believe that El meant those three little words.

He had tried to tell El that once, but he hadn’t gotten far when he had realized that El already knew. El knew, and that was why El told him so often. The mariachi surrounded him with those words, and of late Sands had begun to hear them with less cynicism, and more acceptance. Maybe it was possible. Maybe El really did love him.

“Sit down,” El said. “I had something I wanted to ask you.” 

El took his hand and led him down the porch, to the swing. They had replaced their chairs, and El had found a slat-backed bench that he had attached to two long chains hanging from the porch ceiling, creating a swing. Chiclet loved to sit there and kick himself back and forth all day long, but Sands hated it. He didn’t like the slow rocking motion, and the fact that he couldn’t see where he was going.

He sat down, removing his hand from El’s. “So ask me.”

He heard El retrieve the guitar, then the mariachi sat beside him, setting the swing to rocking. Sands scowled and had to refrain from reaching out and grabbing the arm of the bench.

“I know you’re bored all day,” El said.

Sands shrugged, and did not deny this. There was never anything good on TV, and it wasn’t like he could really follow what was going on, anyway. Even if he had been able to, he wasn’t like El, who could sit for hours with just a guitar on his lap, whiling away the afternoon. That left a whole fat lot of nothing to fill his time with.

“You work well with wood,” El said. “And with your hands.”

He didn’t deny this, either. The splinters of their former furniture had provided plenty of wood for him to practice carving with. Once he had been able to start using his left hand to hold the pieces, he had done even better. 

“I wondered,” El said, “if you would like to learn how to make a guitar.”

Sands said nothing to this. Here it was. El was mocking him. Soon the mariachi would start to laugh, and the moment he did Sands was going to jam a gun in his face and pull the trigger.

“I would be happy to teach you,” El said. “I think you would do very well. You have talented hands.” He raised Sands’ right hand to his lips and kissed the back.

In fury he jerked his hand away, managing to give El a half-slap as he did. “That’s real funny, El. Fuck you.” He started to get off the swing.

“Wait!” El grabbed his arm and pulled him back down. It was the kind of gesture that would have gotten him shot once, or punched in the mouth, at least. Now Sands just waited, and El removed his hand on his own. “Just listen to me.”

“I think I’ve heard enough,” Sands said. “That is the worst idea I have ever heard, and let me tell you why. First of all, it’s not like we need to be selling things to make money. We have plenty of money. Second, I’m not about to sit my ass down at the market in that village and get robbed blind by people walking by and taking shit because I can’t see it. Robbed blind? Get it yet?”

He was getting angrier with every word. “And I don’t need your fucking pity, or your charity. I can manage quite fine on my own, thank you very much. I’ve been doing it for over two years.” El started to say something, but Sands refused to let him. “So what is this, then? The great El Mariachi can’t live without music in his life. But since his blind lover can’t play guitar anymore, oh I know, let’s teach him how to _make_ them instead? Fuck you!” He reached out and snatched the guitar from El’s lap.

“No!” El cried, grabbing for it. “Don’t!”

He flailed out with the guitar. It was unwieldy and heavy, but El still shied back, not wanting to be struck with it.

Sands slammed the guitar onto his lap. “Fuck you,” he snarled. “Fuck you all.” He forced his left hand to curl around the neck, fingers jabbing at random frets, and raked his right hand across the strings.

An angry, jangling sound filled the air. El stopped trying to take the guitar away. Sands shifted his grip, cursing at the pain and weakness in his fingers, and this time managed a decent chord.

He tried another, and palsy shook his hand, the fingers crying out at being forced to bend and apply pressure to the frets. He had to let go.

“You did it,” El breathed.

_You did it._

Deep inside, a small voice exulted. 

He had made music again. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. Sands ran his right hand over the curve in the guitar’s body. He could do this. Maybe not right away, but he could learn how. Already he knew how to command wood and make it take basic shapes -- it couldn’t take too long to learn how to make music this way, as well.

“All right,” he said, forgetting that just a minute ago he had been angry enough to hurt El. He handed the guitar back to the mariachi. “You teach me. Teach me to make your music your way.” He flexed his left hand. “I’m going to teach myself, my way.”

El set the guitar on the floor. Warm lips brushed the side of his face. “I will teach you.”

He turned his head so he could kiss El’s mouth. “Good.”

“Does this mean you are staying?” El asked, pulling away just enough so he could speak.

Sands shrugged, and gave El a crooked smile. “Looks like it.”

El pulled him up, off the swing. “Then let’s go inside and celebrate.”

They kissed hungrily, groping for the door behind them, for bare skin. “Tell me you love me,” El demanded.

“I love you,” Sands growled in El’s ear. He nibbled on El’s earlobe. “Happy now?”

A shiver went through the mariachi. “Very happy.” He finally found the door, and pulled it open. He started to walk backwards, taking Sands with him.

“Wait, wait.” Sands tore himself loose from El’s grasp. He walked across the porch and went to stand at the railing. Once, two and a half years ago, he had stood here, listening to El approach him from behind, and he had vowed to kill the mariachi.

He turned around to face El. “After everything we’ve been through,” he said. “We’re still standing, El. Who would have guessed it?”

“I would have,” El said. He crossed the porch and went to stand beside him. “Men like us always end up on their feet.”

“When they’re not on their backs,” Sands said, wishing he could see the look on El’s face as he said it.

El made a slight choking noise. “I think I prefer to think of us as still standing,” he said.

Sands had to admit he liked that better too. They had been through hell, but they had come out the other side.

Together.

“All right then,” Sands said, and smiled. “We’re still standing, El.”

*********

END


End file.
